Britain Is A World By Itself, And

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

A Rarer Spirit Never Did Steer Humanity; But You Gods Will Give Us Some Faults To Make Us Men.

Wine Loved I Deeply, Dice Dearly.

My Heart Laments That Virtue Cannot Live Out Of The Teeth Of Emulation.

No, No, I Am But Shadow Of Myself: You Are Deceived, My Substance Is Not Here.