But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised, And mine that I was proud on--mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her--why she, O, she is fall'n Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh!

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare

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And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons.

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Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; the thief doth fear each bush an officer.

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So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
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I would forget it fain,
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt

— William Shakespeare

ArtlessFearingFull