Beware The Ides Of March.

Temptation Is The Fire That Brings Up The Scum Of The Heart.

To Be, Or Not To Be, That Is The Question.

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

And So, From Hour To Hour, We Ripe And Ripe. And Then, From Hour To Hour, We Rot And Rot; And Thereby Hangs A Tale.