A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
	Act 1 scene 1
Helena:
How happy some or other some can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she,
But what of that?  Demetrius thinks not so:
He will not know what all but he do know.
And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,
So I, admiring of his qualities.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind:
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
Nor hath Love's mind of any judgement taste:
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
And therefore is Love said to be a child:
Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear:
So the boy Love is perjured everywhere.
For ere Demetrius looked on Hermia's eyne,
He hailed down oaths that he was only mine.
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,
So he dissolved, and show'rs of oaths did melt.
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight:
Then to the wood will he tomorrow night
Pursue her: and for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:
But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
To have his sight thither and back again.

	A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE
	by Tennessee Williams
Blanche:
You're a fine one to ask me how Belle Reve was lost, Stella!  You're a fine one to sit 
there accusing me of it!  I, I, I took the blows in my face and my body!  All those deaths!  
The long parade to the graveyard!  Father, mother!  Margaret, that dreadful way!  So bit 
with it, it couldn't be put in a coffin!  But had to be burned like rubbish!  You just came 
home in time for the funerals, Stella.  And funerals are pretty compared to deaths.  
Funerals are quiet, but deaths -- not always.  Sometimes their breathing is hoarse, and 
sometimes it rattles, and sometimes they even cry out to you, "Don't let me go!"  Even the 
old, sometimes, say, "Don't let me go!"  As if you were able to stop them!  But funerals 
are quiet, with pretty flowers.  And, oh, what gorgeous boxes they pack them away in!  
Unless you were there at the bed when they cried out, "Hold me!" you'd never suspect 
there was the struggle for breath and bleeding.  You didn't dream, but I saw!  Saw!  Saw!  
And now you sit there telling me with your eyes that I let the place go!  How in hell do 
you think all that sickness and dying was paid for?  Death is expensive, Miss Stella!  And 
old Cousin Jessie's right after Margaret's, hers!  Why, the Grim Reaper had put up his tent 
on our doorstep!... Stella, Belle Reve was his headquarters!  Honey -- that's how it slipped 
through my fingers!  Which of them left us a fortune?  Which of them left a cent of 
insurance even?  Only poor Jessie -- one hundred to pay for her coffin.  That was all, 
Stella!  And I with my pitiful salary at the school.  yes, accuse me!  Sit there and stare at 
me, thinking I let the place go?  Where were you!  In bed with your -- Polack!

	A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE
	by Tennessee Williams
Blanche:
I loved someone, too, and the person I loved I lost.  He was a boy, just a boy, when I was 
a very young girl.  When I was sixteen, I made the discovery -- love.  All at once and 
much, much too completely.  It was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on 
something that had always been half in shadow, that's how it struck the world for me.  
But I was unlucky.  Deluded.  There was something different about the boy, a 
nervousness, a softness and tenderness which wasn't like a man's, although he wasn't the 
least bit effeminate looking -- still -- that thing was there.... He came to me for help.  I 
didn't know that.  I didn't find out anything till after our marriage when we'd run away 
and come back and all I knew was I'd failed him in some mysterious way and wasn't able 
to give the help he needed but couldn't speak of!  He was in the quicksands and clutching 
at me -- but I wasn't holding him out, I was slipping in with him!  I didn't know that.  I 
didn't know anything except I loved him unendurably but without being able to help him 
or help myself.  Then I found out.  In the worst of all possible ways.  By coming suddenly 
into a room that i thought was empty -- which wasn't empty, but had two people in it... 
the boy I had married and an older man who had been his friend for years... Afterwards 
we pretended that nothing had been discovered.  Yes, the three of us drove our to Moon 
Lake Casino, very drunk and laughing all the way.  We danced the Varsouviana!  
Suddenly in the middle of the dance the boy I had married broke away from me and ran 
out of the casino.  A few moments later -- a shot!  I ran out -- all did!  All ran and 
gathered about the terrible thing at the edge of the lake!  I couldn't get near for the 
crowding.  Then somebody caught my arm.  "Don't go any closer!  Come back!  You 
don't want to see!"  See?  See what!  Then I heard voices say -- Allan!  Allan!  The Grey 
boy!  He'd stuck the revolver into his mouth, and fired -- so that the back of his head had 
been -- blown away!  It was because -on the dance floor -- unable to stop myself -- I'd 
suddenly said -- "I saw!  I know!  You disgust me..."  And then the searchlight which had 
been turned on the world was turned off again and never for one moment since has there 
been any light that's stronger than this -- kitchen -- candle...

	CYMBELINE
	Act 3 scene 4
Imogen:
False to his bed?  What is it to be false?
To lie in watch there, and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt clock and clock?  if sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
And cry myself awake?  that's false to's bed, is it?
I false?  Thy conscience witness.  Jachimo, 
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;
Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks,
Thy favour's good enough.  Some jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betrayed him.
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;
And, for I am richer than to hang by th'walls,
I must be ripped.  To pieces with me!  O,
Men's vows are women's traitors!  All good seeming,
By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought 
Put on for villainy; not born where't grows,
But worn a bait for ladies.

	CYMBELINE
	Act 3 scene 6
Imogen:
I see a man's life is a tedious one.
I have tired myself, and for two nights together 
Have made the ground my bed.  I should be sick,
But that my resolution helps me.  Milford,
When from the mountain-top Pisanio showed thee,
Thou wast within a ken.  O Jove, I think
Foundations fly the wretched: such, I mean,
Where thy should be relieved.  Two beggars told me
I could not miss my way.  Will poor folks lie,
That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis 
A punishment or trial?  Yes; no wonder,
When rich ones scarce tell true.  To lapse if fullness
Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood
Is worse in kings than beggars.  My dear lord,
Thou art one o'th'false ones.  Now I think on thee
My hunger's gone; but even before, I was
At point to sink for food.  But what is this?
Here is a path to't, 'tis some savage hold.
I were best not call; I dare not call; yet famine,
Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant.
Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother.  Ho!  who's here?
Ho!  no answer?  then I'll enter.
Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy
But fear the sword like me, he'll scarcely look on't.
	

	HAMLET
	Act 4 scene 7
Gertrude:
One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow; your sister's drowned, Laertes.
There is a willow grows askant the brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream,
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.
There on the pendant boughs her crownet weeds
Clamb'ring to hang, and envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook.  Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaid-like awhile they bore her up,
Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element.  But long it could no be 
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

	HENRY VIII
	Act 3 scene 1
Katherine:
Have I lived thus long - let me speak myself,
Since virtue finds no friends - a wife, a true one?
A woman, I dare say without vain - glory,
Never yet branded with suspicion?
Have I with all my full affections
Still met the king?  loved him next to heaven?  obeyed hem?
Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him?
Almost forgot my prayers to content him?
And am I thus rewarded? "tis not well, lords.
Bring me a constant woman to her husband,
One that ne'er dreamed a joy beyond his pleasure,
And to that woman, when she has done most,
Yet will I add an honour - a great patience.

My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty
To give up willingly that noble title
Your master wed me to; nothing but death
Shall e'er divorce my dignities.

Would I had never trod this English earth,
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!
Ye have angels' faces, but heaven knows your hearts.
What will become of me now, wretched lady!
I am the most unhappy woman living.
Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes?
Shipwrecked upon a kingdom, where no pity,
No friends, no hope; no kindred weep for me;
Almost no grave allowed me.  Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field, and flourished,
I'll hang my head and perish.

	JOAN OF LORRAINE
	by Maxwell Anderson
Joan:
King of Heaven, I come to fulfill a vow.  The truce with Burgundy is signed, we are at 
peace, I shall wear this white armor no more.  I leave it here on your altar.  We are at 
peace, my King, but not such a peace as we dreamed; no, horribly, evilly in armistice, 
with much of the war to be fought and our enemies preparing while we dwindle here 
from town to town, holding court, receiving embassies, and dismissing soldiers.  From 
town to town, from city to city, I have attended, doing the King's bidding, for he asks me 
to stay beside him -- and this is the king of Your choosing, Your regent in France.  We 
have feasted in Campeigne, Senlis and Beauvais, and we must feast in many more, if the 
plans hold. -- But, O King of Heaven, the food is bitter.  It is bought with money the King 
has accepted in payment for provinces and cities.  I would rather sleep on the ground 
again, and chew my handful of beans, and rise to face the rank of English spears.  For this 
way we shall lose all we have won.  Even I can see that, and my Voices have said 
nothing. -- If my Voices would speak again -- if they would tell me what I should do -- 
then I could sleep at night and accept what comes to me.  But they have not spoken, they 
are silent.  And I ask again and again -may I go into battle, or must I remain with the 
King and his household, busy with the nothings that fill these days?  If my Voices do not 
answer, if no injunction is laid on me, then I cannot stay here.  I must arm again, and find 
the enemy, and fight as before. -- Let my Voices speak to me if this is wrong!  Let them 
speak now!  I wait here alone, in the darkness and silence. -- There is no answer.  Have I 
been abandoned?  Have I made an error that is not forgiven? -- No answer still. -- Then I 
must go into battle, King of Heaven.  I shall find another armor, not this shining one in 
which I rode as Your messenger, but another, dark and humble, fitting to a common 
soldier.  Whether I win or lose, it will be better than in these chattering rooms, trying to 
say something that means nothing.  I think I have courage to die, but not to die thus, in 
small, sick ways, daily.-- Is there a Voice then?  Will St. Michael speak to me, or St. 
Catherine, or St. Margaret?  Then I go to find Alencon and La Hire and Dunois.  And an 
armor of iron -- and the axe and sword of a soldier.  Long ago my Voices told me that I 
would be taken prisoner.  Well, when it comes I shall at least have arms in my hands.

	THE LARK
	by Jean Anouilh
	Act 2
Joan:
Monseigneur, I have done wrong.  And I don't know how or why I did it.  I swore against 
myself.  That is a great sin, past all others -- I still believe in all that I did, and yet I swore 
against it.  God can't want that.  What can be left for me?
	Certainly they will not make me a gay life, not at first.  But maybe in time, when I 
am no longer dangerous, Charles might even give me a small pension and a servant's 
room at court.  And I will wear cast-off brocade and put jewels in my hair and grow old.  
I will be happy that few people remember my warrior days and I will grovel before those 
who speak of my past and pray them to be silent.  And when I die, in a big fat bed, I will 
be remembered as a crazy girl who rode into battle for what she said she believed, and 
ate the dirt of lies when she was faced with punishment.  That will be the best that I can 
have -- if my little Charles remembers me at all.  If he doesn't there will be a prison 
dungeon, and filth and darkness -- What good is life either way?
	(To Voices) I was only born the day you first spoke to me.  My life only began on 
the day you told me what I must do, my sword in hand.  You are silent, dear my God, 
because you are sad to see me frightened and craven.  And for what?  A few years of 
unworthy life.  I know.  Yes, I know.  I took the good days from You and refused the bad.  
I know.  Dear my God, forgive me, and keep me now to be myself.  Forgive me and take 
me back for what I am.

	MEASURE FOR MEASURE
	Act 5 scene 1
Isabella:
Justice, O royal duke!  Vail your regard
Upon a wronged - I would fain have said a maid.
O worthy prince, dishonor not your eye
By throwing it on any other object,
Till you have heard me, in my true complaint,
And given me justice, justice, justice, justice!
O worthy duke,
You bid me seek redemption of the devil!
Hear me yourself: for that which I must speak
Must either punish me, not being believed,
Or wring redress from you... Hear me, O, hear me, here.
Most strange...but yet most truly will I speak.
That Angelo's forsworn, is it not strange?
That Angelo's a murderer, it's not strange?
That Angelo is an adulterous thief,
An hypocrite, a virgin-violator - 
Is it not strange and strange?
It is not truer he is Angelo
Than this is all as true as it is strange;
Nay, it is ten times true, for truth is truth
To th'end of reck'ning.
O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ'st
There is another comfort than this world,
That thou neglect me not, with that opinion
That I am touched with madness: make not impossible
That which but seems unlike.  "Tis not impossible
But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground, May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as 
absolute...
As Angelo!  even so may Angelo,
In all his dressings, caracts, titles, forms,
Be an arch-villain...  Believe it, royal prince,
If he be less, he's nothing, but he's more,
Had I more name for badness.

	OTHELLO
	Act 4 scene 2
Desdemona:
	Alas, Iago,
What shall I do to win my lord again?
Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,
I know not how I lost him.  Here I kneel:
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed,
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
Delighted them in any other form,
Or that I do not yet, and ever did, 
And ever will, though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly.
Comfort forswear me!  Unkindness may do much;
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love.  I cannot say "whore":
It does abhor me now I speak the word;
To do the act that might the addition earn 
Not the world's mass of vanity could make me.

	OTHELLO
	Act 4 scene 3
Emilia:
...I do think it is their husbands' faults
If wives do fall.  Say that they slack their duties
And pour our treasures into foreign laps,
Or else break out in peevish jealousies,
Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us,
Or scant our former having in despite -
Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,
Yet we have some revenge.  Let husbands know
Their wives have sense like them: they see, and smell,
And have their palates both for sweet and sour,
As husbands have.  What is it that they do
When they change us for others?  Is it sport?
I think it is.  And doth affection breed it?
I think it doth.  Is't frailty that thus errs?
It is so too.  And have we not affections,
Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?
Then let them use us well: else let them know,
The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.

	RICHARD III
	Act 4 scene 1

Anne:
Why, when he that is my husband now
Came to me, as I followed Henry's corse,
When scarce the blood was well washed from his hands
Which issued from my other angel husband,
And that dear saint which them I weeping followed-
O, when, I say, I looked on Richard's face,
This was my wish: "Be thou," quoth I, "accursed,
For making me, so young, so old a widow!
And, when thou wed'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;
And be thy wife - if any be so - made
More miserable by the life of thee
Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death!"
Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time, my woman's heart 
Grossly grew captive to his honey words
And proved the subject of mine own soul's curse,
Which hitherto hath held mine eyes from rest;
For never yet one hour in his bed
Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,
But with his timorous dreams was still awaked.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick;
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

	RICHARD III
	Act 1 scene 2
Anne:
Set down, set down your honorable load -
If honor may be shrouded in a hearse -
Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament
Th'untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.
Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!
Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!
Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!
Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost,
To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaught'red son,
Stabbed by the self-same hands that made these wounds!
Lo, in these windows that let forth life
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.
O curse'd  be the hand that made these holes!
Curse'd the blood that let this blood from hence!
Curse'd the heart that had the heart to do it!
More direful hap betide that hated wretch
That makes us wretched by the death of thee
Than I can wish to wolves - to spiders, toads,
Or any creeping venomed thing that lives!
If ever he have child, abortive be it.
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural aspect
May fright the hopeful mother at the view;
And that be heir to his unhappiness!
If ever he have wife, let her be made 
More miserable by the life of him
Than I am by my young lord's death and thee!
Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load,
Taken from Paul's to be interred there;
And still, as you are weary of this weight, 
Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse.

	THE ROYAL FAMILY 
	Act 2
Julie:
Damn your dear public, Tony!  The entire population of New York is standing on the 
doorstep, howling for a glimpse of America's foremost screen lover.  In the meantime 
they take what fortune sends, and it just so happened to be me.  What a dandy day this 
has been!... I had to get out at the corner - you don't dare drive up.  And my dear Mrs. 
Cavendish, have you ever played to an audience made up entirely of sea lions!  They 
came in wet to the knees and never did dry off.  They spent the first act taking galoshes 
off and the last act putting them on.  You know -- (Stoops to pull imaginary zippers) ...I 
looked out once during the last act and couldn't see a face.  And cough!  I think they had 
a cheerleader.  Lincoln couldn't have held them with the Gettysburg address.  How's 
Gwen, mother?  Is she better?  Shut up, Tony!... Has she eaten anything?  What's she 
doing?  Tony, my love, Wolfe is bringing your passport.  He's been pulling all sorts of 
wires.  He's been in and out of my dressing room all afternoon.  Everybody's been in and 
out of my dressing room all afternoon.  Compared to my dressing room, Grand Central 
Terminal was a rustic retreat.  And al on account of you, my baby.  Reporters, and 
process servers, and sob sisters.... Oh, Wolfe's bringing your money, too.  They kept your 
reservation, and I've paid for it.  You neglected to tell me that you were roughing it across 
in the royal suite.  What do you do with all your money anyway?  You go out to 
Hollywood with a billion dollar contract and you buy a pink plaster palace for one 
hundred and fifty thousand, and Isotta Fraschini for twenty thousand and an Hispano 
Suiza for twenty-five, a camp int he Sierras for another fifty -- good lord, you were sunk a 
quarter of a million before they ever turned a crank on you!... And as soon as they start to 
take a picture you knock out the director and quit.

	TWELFTH NIGHT
	Act 2 scene 2
Viola:
I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charmed her!
She made good view of me, indeed so much,
That as methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly...
She loves me, sure - the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger...
None of my lord's ring!  why, he sent her none...
I am the man - if it be so, as 'tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream...
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made of, such we be...
How will this fadge?  My master loves her dearly,
And I (poor monster!) fond as much on him:
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me:
What will become of this?  As I am a man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman - now alas the day! -
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe?
O time, thou must untangle this, not I,
It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.

	THE WINTER'S TALE
	Act 3 scene 2
Hermione:
Since what I am to say must be but that
Which contradicts my accusation, and
The testimony on my part no other
But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me
To say "not guilty": mine integrity,
Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,
Be so received... But thus, if powers divine
Behold our human actions (as they do),
I doubt not then but innocence shall make
False accusation blush, and tyranny
Tremble at patience... You, my lord, best know
(Who least will seem to do) my past life
Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,
As I am now unhappy; which is more
Than history can pattern, though devised
And played to take spectators.  For behold me,
A fellow of the royal bed, which owe
A moity of the throne... a great kings daughter,
The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing 
To prate and talk for life and honor, 'fore
Who please to come and hear.  For life, I prize it
As I weigh grief (which I would spare): for honor,
'Tis a derivative from me to mine,
And only that I stand for... I appeal
To your conscience, sir, before Polixenes
Came to ; your court, how I was in your grace, 
How merited to be so; since he came,
With what encounter so uncurrent I
Have strained t'appear thus: if one jot beyond
The bound of honor, or in act or will
That way inclining hard'ned be the hearts
Of all that hear me, and my nears't of kin
Cry fie upon my grave!

Sir, spare your threats:
The bug which you would fright me with I seek:
To me can life be no commodity:
The crown and comfort of my life (your favour)
I do give lost, for I do feel it gone,
But know not how it went.  My second joy,
And first-fruits of my body, from his presence 
I am barred, like one infectious.  My third comfort
(Starred most unluckily!) is from my breast,
The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,
Haled out to murder.  Myself on every post
Proclaimed a strumpet: with immodest hatred
The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs
To women of all fashion.  Lastly, hurried
Here, to this place, i'th'open air, before
I have got strength of limit.  Now, my liege,
Tell me what blessings I have here alive,
That I should fear to die?  Therefore proceed...
But yet hear this: mistake me not: no life!-
I prize it not a straw - but for mine honor,
Which I would free... If I shall be condemned
Upon surmises (all proofs sleeping else
But what your jealousies awake) I tell you,
'Tis rigour and not law... Your honours all,
I do refer me to the oracle;
Apollo be my judge.

	AS YOU LIKE IT
	Act 3 scene 5
Phebe:  I would not be thy executioner.
I fly thee, for I would not injure the...
Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye -
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies, 
Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart,
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee;
Now counterfeit to swoon, why now fall down,
Or if thou canst not, O for shame, for shame,
Lie not to say mine eyes are murderers!
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee.
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it: lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes 
That can do hurt.
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee,
And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:
But do not look for further recompense
Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
Think not I love him, though I ask for him.
'Tis but a peevish boy - yet he talks well -
But what care I for words? - yet words do well,
When he, that speaks them pleases those that hear:
It is a pretty youth - not very pretty -
But, sure, he's proud - and yet his pride becomes him:
He'll make a proper man: the best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue 
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up:
He is not very tall - yet for his years he's tall:
His leg is but so so - and yet 'tis well:
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lusty red
Than that mixed in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask...
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near 
To fall in love with him: but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him,
For what had he to do to chide at me?
He said mine eyes were black and my hair black,
And, now I am remembered, scorn'd at me:
I marvel why I answered not again:
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance:
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it - wilt thou, Silvius?
I'll write it straight;
The matter's in my head and in my heart.
I will be bitter with him and passing short:
Go with me, Silvius.