This Cold Night Will Turn Us All

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.

What We Determine We Often Break. Purpose Is But The Slave To Memory.

Honor, Riches, Marriage-blessing Long Continuance, And Increasing, Hourly Joys Be Still Upon You!

Sweet Love! Sweet Lines! Sweet Life! Here Is Her Hand, The Agent Of Her Heart; Here Is Her Oath For Love, Her Honour's Pawn

Zounds! Sir, You Are One Of Those That Will Not Serve God If The Devil Bid You.