Till Our King Henry Had Shook Hands

You Are Not Wood, You Are Not Stones, But Men.

Take All The Swift Advantage Of The Hours.

The Time Is Out Of Joint.

By Jove, I Am Not Covetous For Gold, Nor Care I Who Doth Feed Upon My Cost; It Yearns Me Not If Me My Garments Wear; Such Outward Things Dwell Not In My Desires: But If It Be A Sin To Covet Honor, I Am The Most Offending Soul Alive.

He Jests At Scars That Never Felt A Wound.