If Ever Shakespeare Rants, It Is Not

An Acre In Middlesex Is Better Than A Principality In Utopia.

In Truth It May Be Laid Down As An Almost Universal Rule That Good Poets Are Bad Critics.

Cut Off My Head, And Singular I Am, Cut Off My Tail, And Plural I Appear; Although My Middle's Left, There's Nothing There! What Is My Head Cut Off? A Sounding Sea; What Is My Tail Cut Off? A Rushing River; And In Their Mingling Depths I Fearless Play, Parent Of Sweetest Sounds, Yet Mute Forever.

Then None Was For A Party; Than All Were For The State; Then The Great Man Helped The Poor, And The Poor Man Loved The Great: Then Lands Were Fairly Portioned; Then Spoils Were Fairly Sold: The Romans Were Like Brothers In The Brave Days Of Old.

To Carry The Spirit Of Peace Into War Is A Weak And Cruel Policy. When An Extreme Case Calls For That Remedy Which Is In Its Own Nature Most Violent, And Which, In Such Cases, Is A Remedy Only Because It Is Violent, It Is Idle To Think Of Mitigating And Diluting. Languid War Can Do Nothing Which Negotiation Or Submission Will Do Better: And To Act On Any Other Principle Is, Not To Save Blood And Money, But To Squander Them.