All Pity Choked With Custom Of Fell

But When I Came, Alas, To Wive, With Hey, Ho, The Wind And The Rain, By Swaggering Could I Never Thrive, For The Rain It Raineth Every Day.

The Ides Of March Are Come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; But Not Gone.

Thou Shalt Not Stir One Foot To Seek A Foe.

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.

Kindness Nobler Ever Than Revenge.