Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale

Truth Will Come To Sight; Murder Cannot Be Hid Long.

The Little Dogs And All, Tray, Blanch, And Sweetheart-see, They Bark At Me.

Uneasy Lies The Head That Wears A Crown.

My Wits Begin To Turn.

And Oftentimes, To Win Us To Our Harm, The Instruments Of Darkness Tell Us Truths, Win Us With Honest Trifles, To Betray's In Deepest Consequence