The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks.

The Soul Of This Man Is His Clothes.

One May Smile, And Smile, And Be A Villain.

Yield Not Thy Neck To Fortunes Yoke, But Let Thy Dauntless Mind Still Ride In Triumph Over All Mischance.

Thou Know'st 'tis Common; All That Lives Must Die, Passing Through Nature To Eternity.

My Father's Wit, And My Mother's Tongue, Assist Me!