The Trust I Have Is In Mine

A Good Man's Fortune May Grow Out At Heels.

Beware The Ides Of March.

Merciful Heaven, Thou Rather With Thy Sharp And Sulphurous Bolt Splits The Unwedgeable And Gnarled Oak Than The Soft Myrtle; But Man, Proud Man, Dressed In A Little Brief Authority, Most Ignorant Of What He's Most Assured His Glassy Essence--like An Angry Ape Plays Such Fantastic Tricks Before High Heaven As Makes The Angels Weep; Who, With Our Spleens, Would All Themselves Laugh Mortal.

Despair And Die. The Ghosts

Just Death, Kind Umpire Of Men's Miseries.