I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.

Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.Even now I curse the day__nd yet, I think,Few come within the compass of my curse,__herein I did not some notorious ill,As kill a man, or else devise his death,Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it,Accuse some innocent and forswear myself,Set deadly enmity between two friends,Make poor men's cattle break their necks;Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,And bid the owners quench them with their tears.Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,And set them upright at their dear friends' doors,Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful thingsAs willingly as one would kill a fly,And nothing grieves me heartily indeedBut that I cannot do ten thousand more.

In thy foul throat thou liest.

I__e found I still serve a purpose. I remind people to pray, to calculate the odds, to thank the fates, the gods, good karma, whatever it was that made this happen to me and not them. I__ in the worst sort of club. The one no one else wants to be in.

..What our contempt often hurls from us,We wish it our again; the present pleasure,By revolution lowering,does becomeThe opposite of itself..

Whether fate or fortuitous,The voyage is incessant.Life is gratuitous,It's regrets recrudescent.We so blindly see adversely,Linear to some 'decree'.Sentenced by each other,To live this critically.To err is Human,Ironic that we divest.For any man who puts that past him,No misfortunes he has left.