Base Is The Slave That Pays.

Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

I Drink To The General Joy O’ The Whole Table." Macbeth

Drown Thyself? Drown Cats And Blind Puppies.

You Are Strangely Troublesome.