Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.

In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy shee

But words are words; I never yet did hearThat the bruised heart was pierced through the ear.

Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.