As the hounds began to close in upon me, I lifted my makeshift club and began to beat back their snarling faces, granting me enough time to fall back to the shelter of a large oak...
“The storms of ruthless dispensation
Have struck my flowery garland numb,
I live in lonely desolation
And wonder when my end will come."
“Deprived of voice, of motion, and of breath / The soul scarce waking in the arms of death.”
I do love thee so,
That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,
If heaven will take the present at our hands.
“You would prate, sir? This is a true-love knot / Sent from the Duke of Florence.”
"Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me false to my nature? Rather say I play the man I am."
His voice was the sweet poison that overcomes all repulsion and makes the hearer favor his own destruction and forsake his own cause for the sake of that tongue.
I know he scorns me–and I feel, I hate him–
Yet there is in him that which makes me tremble!
"For my part, / The rack, the gallows, and the torturing wheel, / Shall be but sound sleeps to me: here's my rest."