We Make Trifles Of Terrors,

Here Comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With His Mouth Full Of News. Celia: Which He Will Put On Us, As Pigeons Feed Their Young. Rosalind: Then Shall We Be News-crammed. Celia: All The Better; We Shall Be The More Marketable.

Love's Best Habit Is A Soothing Tongue

If You Love An Addle Egg As Well As You Love An Idle Head, You Would Eat Chickens I' Th' Shell.

My Free Drift Halts Not Particularly, But Moves Itself In A Wide Sea Of Wax; No Levelled Malice Infects One Comma In The Course I Hold, But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

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.