Beware The Ides Of March.

The Best Quarrels, In The Heat, Are Cursed By Those That Feel Their Sharpness.

What's More To Do, Which Would Be Planted Newly With The Time, As Calling Home Our Exiled Friends Abroad That Fled The Snares Of Watchful Tyranny, Producing Forth The Cruel Ministers Of This Dead Butcher And His Fiend-like Queen, Who, As 'tis Thought, By Self And Violent Hands Took Off Her Life; This, And What Needful Else That Calls Upon Us, By The Grace Of Grace We Will Perform In Measure, Time, And Place.

The Hind That Would Be Mated By The Lion Must Die For Love.

Like One Who Having Into Truth, By Telling Of It, Made Such A Sinner Of His Memory, To Credit His Own Lie.

Though Authority Be A Stubborn Bear, Yet He Is Oft Let By The Nose With Gold.