Conscience Is A Thousand Swords.

I Charge Thee, Hence, And Do Not Haunt Me Thus.

His Life Was Gentle; And The Elements So Mixed In Him, That Nature Might Stand Up And Say To All The World, This Was A Man!

Keep Time! How Sour Sweet Music Is When Time Is Broke And No Proportion Kept! So Is It In The Music Of Men's Lives. I Wasted Time And Now Doth Time Waste Me.

God Is Our Fortress, In Whose Conquering Name Let Us Resolve To Scale Their Flinty Bulwarks.

Aand In The End, Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else But That I Was A Journeyman To Grief?