The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety

Wilt Thou Whip Thine Own Faults In Other Men?

He That Filches From Me My Good Name Robs Me Of That Which Enriches Him And Makes Me Poor Indeed.

Hamlet: Is This A Prologue, Or The Posy Of A Ring? Ophelia: 'tis Brief, My Lord. Hamlet: As Woman's Love.

There's Such Divinity Doth Hedge A King That Treason Can But Peep To What It Would.

On The Bat’s Back I Do Fly After Summer Merrily.