My days of love are over; me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of which they made before, — In short, I must not lead the life I did do;
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er,
The copious use of claret is forbid too,
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
I think I must take up with avarice.

What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by.
Richard loves Richard; that is, I and I.
Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am.
Then fly! What, from myself? Great reason why:
Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself?
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O, no! Alas, I rather hate myself
For hateful deeds committed by myself.
I am a villain. Yet I lie. I am not.
Fool, of thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter:
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the highest degree;
Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree;
All several sins, all used in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, “Guilty! guilty!”
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me,
And if I die no soul will pity me.
And wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?

I hate the day, because it lendeth light
To see all things, but not my love to see.

Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.

And what’s he then that says I play the villain?

I don't wanna be a lover,
I just wanna be your victim.

Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure;
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.

The labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery, which insulted my desolate state, and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure.

Heaven forbid! — That would be the greatest misfortune of all! — To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! — Do not wish me such an evil.

Vanity, not love, has been my folly.

I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing.

I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing.

But I have no patience with you, sinner as you are against light, and better knowlege! and derider of the infirmities, not of old maids, but of old age! — Don’t you hope to live long, yourself?

Any pleasure I took in life I now renounce; it’s death I want.