That In The Captains But A Choleric

[s]ince Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit, And Tediousness The Limbs And Outward Flourishes, I Will Be Brief.

Sleep, That Sometimes Shuts Up Sorrow's Eye.

Now The Time Is Come, That France Must Veil Her Lofty-plumed Crest, And Let Her Head Fall Into England's Lap.

But Shall We Wear These Glories For A Day? Or Shall They Last, And We Rejoice In Them?

No Legacy Is So Rich As Honesty.