Honour Is Purchas'd By The Deeds We

What Are Kings, When Regiment Is Gone, But Perfect Shadows In A Sunshine Day?

I'm Armed With More Than Complete Steel, - The Justice Of My Quarrel.

What Feeds Me Destroys Me.

Hell Strives With Grace For Conquest In My Breast. What Shall I Do To Shun The Snares Of Death?

Cut Is The Branch That Might Have Grown Full Straight, And Burned Is Apollo's Laurel Bough, That Sometime Grew Within This Learned Man. Faustus Is Gone.