Go Hang Yourself, You Naughty

Titus Andronicus, My Lord The Emperor Sends Thee This Word, That, If Thou Love Thy Sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, Or Thyself, Old Titus, Or Any One Of You, Chop Off Your Hand And Send It To The King: He For The Same Will Send Thee Hither Both Thy Sons Alive, And That Shall Be The Ransom For Their Fault.

'tis Better To Bear The Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of.

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

To Set A Gloss On Faint Deeds, Hollow Welcomes, Recanting Goodness, Sorry Ere 'tis Shown; But Where There Is True Friendship, There Needs None.

Old Fashions Please Me Best; I Am Not So Nice To Change True Rules For Odd Inventions.