Speak Me Fair In Death.

Let's Go Hand In Hand, Not One Before Another.

Our Enemies Are Our Outward Consciences.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

The Fewer Men, The Greater Share Of Honor.

I Have Of Late--but Wherefore I Know Not--lost All My Mirth, Forgone All Custom Of Exercise.