Beshrew The Heart That Makes My Heart

You Shall More Command With Years Than With Your Weapons.

I Can Give The Loser Leave To Chide.

Beware Of Entrance To A Quarrel.

The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

Thus Conscience Does Make Cowards Of Us All; And Thus The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Slicked O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought