One Pain Is Cured By Another. Catch

He That Dies Pays All Debts.

This Is The Very Ecstasy Of Love, Whose Violent Property Ordoes Itself And Leads The Will To Desperate Undertakings.

If Thou Art Rich, Thou Art Poor; For, Like An Ass, Whose Back With Ingots Bows, Thou Bearest Thy Heavy Riches But A Journey, And Death Unloads Thee.

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.

A Little More Than Kin, And Less Than Kind.