Night after night I go to see her play.

One evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen.

I have seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover's lips.

I have watched her wandering through the forest of Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap.
She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of.

She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike throat.