Your Hearts Are Mighty, Your Skins Are

It Hurts Not The Tongue To Give Fair Words.

Hear Me Profess Sincerely: Had I A Dozen Sons, Each In My Love Alike, And None Less Dear Than Thine And My Good Marcius, I Had Rather Have Eleven Die Nobly For Their Country Than One Voluptuously Surfeit Out Of Action.

'tis Thought The King Is Dead; We Will Not Stay. The Bay Trees In Our Country Are All Wither'd.

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing, And Is Not Careful What They Mean Thereby, Knowing That With The Shadow Of His Wings He Can At Pleasure Stint Their Melody: Even So Mayest Thou The Giddy Men Of Rome.

So Many Hours Must I Take My Rest; So Many Hours Must I Contemplate.