Thou Art The Mars Of Malcontents.

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

We Have Seen Better Days.

Unnatural Deeds Do Breed Unnatural Troubles.

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

Ring The Alarum-bell! Blow, Wind! Come, Wrack! At Least We'll Die With Harness On Our Back.