No Reckoning Made, But Sent To My

And Gentlemen In England Now-a-bed Shall Think Themselves Accurs'd They Were Not Here, And Hold Their Manhoods Cheap Whiles Any Speaks That Fought With Us Upon Saint Crispin's Day.

Pray You Now, Forget And Forgive.

The Ides Of March Are Come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; But Not Gone.

Let Us, Like Merchants, Show Our Foulest Wares, And Think Perchance They'll Sell; If Not, The Lustre Of The Better Yet To Show Shall Show The Better.

The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air