Beware The Ides Of March.

I Am Not Yet Of Percy's Mind, The Hotspur Of The North; He That Kills Me Some Six Or Seven Dozen Of Scots As A Breakfast, Washes His Hands, And Says To His Wife, 'fie Upon This Quiet Life! I Want Work.

The World Must Be Peopled!

So Foul And Fair A Day I Have Not Seen.

I Would Challenge You To A Battle Of Wits, But I See You Are Unarmed!

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.