Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost
To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son,
Stabb'd by the self-same hand that made these wounds.
Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. (1.2.1)
O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!
More wonderful when angels are so angry. (1.2.22)
I would I knew thy heart.
'Tis figur'd in my tongue.
I fear me both are false.
Then never was man true. (1.2.50)