The Ides Of March Are Come. Soothsayer:

Lechery, Lechery; Still, Wars And Lechery: Nothing Else Holds Fashion.

What E'er You Are That In This Desert Inaccessible, Under The Shade Of Melancholy Boughs, Lose And Neglect The Creeping Hours Of Time.

Zounds! I Was Never So Bethumped With Words Since I First Called My Brother's Father Dad.

What Early Tongue So Sweet Saluteth Me? Young Son, It Argues A Distemper'd Head So Soon To Bid Good Morrow To Thy Bed: Care Keeps His Watch In Every Old Man's Eye, And Where Care Lodges, Sleep Will Never Lie; But Where Unbruised Youth With Unstuff'd Brain Doth Couch His Limbs, There Golden Sleep Doth Reign.

Pardon's The Word To All.