Think, man: it’s not the first time she has slipped, she doesn’t pretend it is.
Shakespeare:
The pity of it; ah! the pity of it! The sky is all soiled: my lips, too—my hands—ah!
Herbert:
Why can’t you be a man, and take what’s light lightly!
Shakespeare:
Only the light do that! [To himself.] Is it wrong to kill those light ones?
Herbert:
You would not hurt her.
Shakespeare: