Give Me A Bowl Of

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates. The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In Ourselves, That We Are Underlings.

Your "if" Is The Only Peacemaker; Much Virtue In "if.

O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes' Favors.

I Would We Were All Of One Mind, And One Mind Good.

Tush! Fear Not, My Lord, We Will Not Stand To Prate; Talkers Are No Good Doers: Be Assured We Come To Use Our Hands And Not Our Tongues.