I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore,

Kiss Me, Kate, We Shall Be Married O'sunday

Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit.

O, But They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony: Where Words Are Scarce, They Are Seldom Spent In Vain: For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain. He, That No More Must Say, Is Listened More Than They Whom Youth And Ease Have Taught To Gloze; More Are Men's Ends Marked, Than Their Lives Before: The Setting Sun, And Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last; Writ In Rememberance More Than Things Long Past

If It Will Feed Nothing Else, It Will Feed My Revenge.

Every Subject's Duty Is The Kings, But Every Subject's Soul Is His Own.