Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind Thou Art

Well, I'll Repent, And That Suddenly, While I Am In Some Liking; I Shall Be Out Of Heart Shortly, And Then I Shall Have No Strength To Repent.

Talking Isn't Doing. It Is A Kind Of Good Deed To Say Well; And Yet Words Are Not Deeds.

Talkers Are No Good Doers.

Upon His Royal Face There Is No Note How Dread An Army Hath Enrounded Him.

Youth To Itself Rebels, Though None Else Near.