O War! Thou Son Of Hell!

They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth.

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself, Nor Is Not Moved With Concord Of Sweet Sounds, Is Fit For Treasons, Stratagems And Spoils.

Friendship Is Constant In All Other Things, Save In The Office And Affairs Of Love.

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

Let None Presume To Wear An Undeserved Dignity.