I Have Sounded The Very Base-string Of

My Cake Is Dough, But I'll In Among The Rest, Out Of Hope Of All But My Share Of The Feast.

Honest Plain Words Best Pierce The Ear Of Grief.

The People Are The City.

Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow.

Every Inordinate Cup Is Unbless'd, And The Ingredient Is A Devil.