The Hideous God Of War.

I Will Keep Where There Is Wit Stirring, And Leave The Faction Of Fools.

None Can Cure Their Harms By Wailing Them.

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates. The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In Ourselves, That We Are Underlings.

We Go To Gain A Little Patch Of Ground That Hath In It No Profit But The Name.

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.