Now Is The Winter Of

Murder Most Foul, As In The Best It It; But This Most Foul, Strange, And Unnatural.

I Will Not Be Sworn But Love May Transform Me To An Oyster

Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave.

I Care Not, A Man Can Die But Once; We Owe God And Death.

Should All Despair That Have Revolted Wives, The Tenth Of Mankind Would Hang Themselves.