I Am Ill At These Numbers.

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.

Ay, But To Die, And Go We Know Not Where.

A Good Leg Will Fall; A Straight Back Will Stoop; A Black Beard Will Turn White; A Curl'd Pate Will Grow Bald; A Fair Face Will Wither; A Full Eye Will Wax Hollow: But A Good Heart, Kate, Is The Sun And The Moon; Or, Rather, The Sun, And Not The Moon, — For It Shines Bright, And Never Changes, But Keeps His Course Truly.

Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I A Vine, Whose Weakness, Married To Thy Stronger State, Makes Me With Thy Strength To Communicate.

Let Every Man Be Master Of His Time.