Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

Oh, I Am Fortune's Fool!

One May Smile, And Smile, And Be A Villain.

One Touch Of Nature Makes The Whole World Kin.

Fie, Fie, How Frantically I Square My Talk!