If Music Be The Food Of Love,

Mine Eyes Smell Onions: I Shall Weep Anon.

Shall Remain! Hear You This Triton Of The Minnows? Mark You His Absolute 'shall'?

Assume A Virtue, If You Have It Not. That Monster, Custom, Who All Sense Doth Eat; Of Habits Devil, Is Angel Yet In This.

Beware The Ides Of March.

As A Decrepit Father Takes Delight To See His Active Child Do Deeds Of Youth, So I, Made Lame By Fortune's Dearest Spite, Take All My Comfort Of Thy Worth And Truth.