The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe

Now I Am Past All Comforts Here, But Prayer.

No Evil Lost Is Wailed When It Is Gone.

I Am Wealthy In My Friends.

Let Me Have War, Say I; It Exceeds Peace As Far As Day Does Night; It's Spritely, Waking, Audible, And Full Of Vent.

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates. The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In Ourselves, That We Are Underlings.