by William Shakespeare
No, my Brutus; you have some sick offence within your mind,
Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of:
I charm you, by my once-commended beauty,
By all your vows of love and that great vow which did incorporate and make us one.
That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, why you are heavy.
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted I should know no secrets that appertain to you?
Am I yourself but, as it were, in sort or limitation,
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, and talk to you sometimes?
Dwell I but in the suburbs of your good pleasure?
Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose them:
I have made strong proof of my constancy, giving myself a voluntary wound here, in the thigh:
Can I bear that with patience
And not my husband’s secrets?