Rumour Doth Double, Like The

You Know Who You Are, But Know Not Who You Could Be.

Avaunt, You Cullions!

Beware The Ides Of March.

And This, Our Life, Exempt From Public Haunt, Finds Tongues In Trees, Books In The Running Brooks, Sermons In Stones, And Good In Everything.

Sir, In My Heart There Was A Kind Of Fighting That Would Not Let Me Sleep.