Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

He That Dies Pays All Debts.

Direct Not Him Whose Way Himself Will Choose; 'tis Breath Not Lack'st, And That Breath Wilt Thou Lose.

He Wears The Rose Of Youth Upon Him.

Your Face, My Thane, Is As A Book Where Men May Read Strange Matters. To Beguile The Time, Look Like The Time; Bear Welcome In Your Eye, Your Hand, Your Tongue: Look Like The Innocent Flower, But Be The Serpent Under't.