You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

The Hand That Hath Made You Fair Hath Made You Good. Pity Is The Virtue Of The Law, And None But Tyrants Use It Cruelly.

It Is The Mind That Makes The Body Rich; And As The Sun Breaks Through The Darkest Clouds, So Honor Peereth In The Meanest Habit.

Against Self-slaughter There Is A Prohibition So Divine That Cravens My Weak Hand.

There's Villainous News Abroad.

He That Hath A Beard Is More Than A Youth, And He That Hath No Beard Is Less Than A Man. He That Is More Than A Youth Is Not For Me, And He That Is Less Than A Man, I Am Not For Him.