All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their

There's Hope A Great Man's Memory May Outlive His Life Half A Year.

Most Dear Actors, Eat No Onions Nor Garlic, For We Are To Utter Sweet Breath.

Say, Thou Art Mine; And Ever, My Love, As It Begins, Shall So Persevere

Men Judge By The Complexion Of The Sky The State And Inclination Of The Day.

Therefore I Tell My Sorrows To The Stones; Who, Though They Cannot Answer My Distress, Yet In Some Sort They Are Better Than The Tribunes, For That They Will Not Intercept My Tale: When I Do Weep, They Humbly At My Feet Receive My Tears And Seem To Weep With Me; And, Were They But Attired In Grave Weeds, Rome Could Afford No Tribune Like To These.