Good Company, Good Wine, Good Welcome, Can

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

My Father Names Me Autolycus, Who Being, As I Am, Littered Under Mercury, Was Likewise A Snapper-up Of Unconsidered Trifles.

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

Be To Yourself As You Would To Your Friend.

Bounty, Being Free Itself, Thinks All Others So.