| A | B |
|---|
| That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse | As if the strings were thine |
| We cannot all be masters | nor all masters Cannot be truly followed |
| Look to your house, | your daughter and your bags |
| It is too true an evil; | gone she is |
| O treason of the blood | Fathers, ... your daughters' minds |
| goodness of the night upon you, friends | What is the news? |
| Good signior, you shall more command with years | Than with your weapons |
| Damned as thou art, | thou hast enchanted her |
| Cannot but feel this wrong | as 'twere their own |
| She is abused, stoln from me | and corrupted |
| Rude am I in my speech | And little blest with the soft phrase of peace |
| Did you be indirect and forced courses | Subdue and poison this young maid's affections? |
| So justly to your grave ears I'll present | How I did thrive in this lady's love |
| If she confess that she was half the wooer | Destruction on my head |
| When remedies are past, | the griefs are ended |
| I am hitherto your daughter: | but here's my husband |
| The robb'd that smiles | steals something from the thief |
| The rites for which I love him | are bereft me |
| I never found man that | knew how to love himself |
| It is merely a lust of the blood | and permission of the will |
