Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

The Weakest Goes To The Wall.

Titus Andronicus, My Lord The Emperor Sends Thee This Word, That, If Thou Love Thy Sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, Or Thyself, Old Titus, Or Any One Of You, Chop Off Your Hand And Send It To The King: He For The Same Will Send Thee Hither Both Thy Sons Alive, And That Shall Be The Ransom For Their Fault.

You Wear Out A Good Wholesome Forenoon In Hearing A Cause Between An Orange Wife And A Fosset-seller.

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.

The Heart Hath Treble Wrong When It Is Barr'd The Aidance Of The Tongue.