Confusion Now Hath Made His Masterpiece.

The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety Secure.

All That Glitters Is Not Gold; Often Have You Heard That Told: Many A Man His Life Has Sold But My Outside To Behold: Gilded Tombs Do Worms Enfold Had You Been As Wise As Bold, Your In Limbs, In Judgment Old, Your Answer Had Not Been In'scroll'd Fare You Well: Your Suit Is Cold.' Cold, Indeed, And Labour Lost: Then, Farewell, Heat And Welcome, Frost!

To-morrow, And To-morrow, And To-morrow, Creeps In This Petty Pace From Day To Day, To The Last Syllable Of Recorded Time; And All Our Yesterdays Have Lighted Fools The Way To Dusty Death. Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow, A Poor Player, That Struts And Frets His Hour Upon The Stage, And Then Is Heard No More. It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.

Thou Hast Not Half That Power To Do Me Harm As I Have To Be Hurt.

The End Crowns All, And That Old Common Arbitrator, Time, Will One Day End It.