At last it rains, and busy winds give o’er:
Then son and father weep with equal strife
Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife.

By this we gather
You have tripp’d since.

For that which now torments me to rehearse:
I kill’d a man, whose death I much repent;
But yet I slew him manfully in fight,
Without false vantage or base treachery.

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes

With whom yourself, myself and other lords,
If you think meet, this afternoon will post
To consummate this business happily.