Anger's My Meat. I Sup Upon Myself,

I Hold The World But As The World, Gratiano; A Stage Where Every Man Must Play A Part, And Mine Is A Sad One.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

Where The Greater Malady Is Fixed, The Lesser Is Scarce Felt.

The Latter End Of A Fray, And The Beginning Of A Feast, Fits A Dull Fighter, And A Keen Guest.

He Receives Comfort Like Cold Porridge.