A Beggar's Book Outworths A Noble's Blood.

Knit Your Hearts With An Unslipping Knot.

I Came, Saw, And Overcame.

Your Cause Of Sorrow Must Not Be Measured By His Worth, For Then It Hath No End.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.