Cry Havoc And Let Slip The Dogs

Nothing In His Life Became Him Like Leaving It.

Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

We, Ignorant Of Ourselves, Beg Often Our Own Harms, Which The Wise Powers Deny Us For Our Good; So Find We Profit By Losing Of Our Prayers.

Foul Fiend Of France And Hag Of All Despite, Encompassed With Thy Lustful Paramours, Becomes It Thee To Taunt His Valiant Age And Twit With Cowardice A Man Half Dead?

I Have Trod A Measure, I Have Flattered A Lady, I Have Been Politic With My Friend, Smooth With Mine Enemy.