I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.

The Third Day Comes A Frost, A Killing Frost.

How My Achievements Mock Me!

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.

Those Friends Thou Hast, And Their Adoption Tried, Grapple Them To Thy Soul With Hoops Of Steel; But Do Not Dull Thy Palm With Entertainment Of Each New-hatch'd, Unfledg'd Comrade.

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.