More Matter With Less Art.

I Am Not Yet Of Percy's Mind, The Hotspur Of The North; He That Kills Me Some Six Or Seven Dozen Of Scots As A Breakfast, Washes His Hands, And Says To His Wife, 'fie Upon This Quiet Life! I Want Work.

Our Very Eyes Are Sometimes, Like Our Judgments, Blind.

Speak Of Me As I Am. Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice.

Glory Is Like A Circle In The Water

And The More Pity That Great Folk Should Have Count'nance In This World To Drown Or Hang Themselves More Than Their Even-christen.