The Tongues Of Mocking Wenches Are As

What, Keep A Week Away? Seven Days And Nights, Eightscore-eight Hours, And Lovers' Absent Hours More Tedious Than The Dial Eightscore Times! O Weary Reckoning!

No, I Will Be The Pattern Of All Patience; I Will Say Nothing.

The Eyes Are The Window To Your Soul

I Am Afeard There Are Few Die Well That Die In Battle, For How Can They Charitably Dispose Of Anything When Blood Is Their Argument?

If Thou Dost Seek To Have What Thou Dost Hide, By Self-example Mayst Thou Be Denied.