All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say! One: Two: Why, Then 'tis Time To Do't. Hell Is Murky!

The Setting Sun, And The Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last, Writ In Rememberance More Than Long Things Past.

But As The Unthought-on Accident Is Guilty To What We Wildly Do, So We Profess Ourselves To Be The Slaves Of Chance, And Flies Of Every Wind That Blows.

I Have No Way And Therefore Want No Eyes I Stumbled When I Saw. Full Oft 'tis Seen Our Means Secure Us, And Our Mere Defects Prove Our Commodities.

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends.