T'is True: There's Magic In

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.

A Smile Cures The Wounding Of A Frown.

Therefore The Moon, The Governess Of Floods, Pale In Her Anger Washes All The Air, That Rheumatic Diseases Do Abound; And Through This Distemperature We See The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

Me, Poor Man, My Library Was Dukedom Large Enough.

Conscience Is But A Word That Cowards Use, Devised At First To Keep The Strong In Awe