1 I should e'en die with pity, To see another thus.
2 Had you not been their father, these white flakes Did challenge pity of them.
3 This judgement of the heavens that makes us tremble Touches us not with pity.
4 Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here's a night pities neither wise men nor fools.
5 A most poor man, made tame to fortune's blows; Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity.
6 O dear father, It is thy business that I go about; Therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied.
7 Edmund, I think, is gone In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover to descry The strength o th'enemy.
8 The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and reliev'd, As thou my sometime daughter.
9 When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me on pain of perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him.