All That Glitters Is Not Gold.

The Summer's Flower Is To The Summer Sweet Though To Itself It Only Live And Die

There's A Divinity That Shapes Our Ends, Rough-hew Them How We Will.

I Do I Know Not What, And Fear To Find Mine Eye Too Great A Flatterer For My Mind. Fate, Show Thy Force. Ourselves We Do Not Owe. What Is Decreed Must Be; And Be This So.

O Heaven! Were Man, But Constant, He Were Perfect.

Thrust Your Head Into The Public Street, To Gaze On Christian Fools With Varnish'd Faces.