Beware The Ides Of March.

I Am Ill At These Numbers.

They Whose Guilt Within Their Bosom Lies, Imagine Every Eye Beholds Their Blame.

Good Luck Lies In Odd Numbers.

Music Can Minister To Minds Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain, And With Its Sweet Oblivious Antidote, Cleanse The Full Bosom Of All Perilous Stuff That Weighs Upon The Heart.

The World Is Grown So Bad, That Wrens Make Prey Where Eagles Dare Not Perch.