Falsehood Falsehood Cures

O, Beware, My Lord, Of Jealousy; It Is The Green-ey'd Monster, Which Doth Mock The Meat It Feeds On.

I Am Sure Care's An Enemy To Life.

My Free Drift Halts Not Particularly, But Moves Itself In A Wide Sea Of Wax; No Levelled Malice Infects One Comma In The Course I Hold, But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck, And Yet Methinks I Have Astronomy. But Not To Tell Of Good Or Evil Luck, Of Plagues, Of Dearths, Or Season's Quality; Nor Can I Fortune To Brief Minutes Tell ... Or Say With Princes If It Shall Go Well.

A Happy Ending Cannot Come In The Middle Of The Story