It Will Have Blood, They Say; Blood

Your Bait Of Falsehood Takes This Carp Of Truth.

I Will Not Choose What Many Men Desire, Because I Will Not Jump With Common Spirits And Rank Me With The Barbarous Multitudes.

O, This Life Is Nobler Than Attending For A Check, Richer Than Doing Nothing For A Robe, Prouder Than Rustling In Unpaid-for Silk: Such Pain The Cap Of Him That Makes Him Fine Yet Keeps His Book Uncrossed.

How Much Salt Water Thrown Away In Waste/ To Season Love, That Of It Doth Not Taste.

Et Tu Brute! (you Too, Brutus!)