God Is Our Fortress, In Whose Conquering

You Are Not Wood, You Are Not Stones, But Men; And Being Men, Hearing The Will Of Caesar, It Will Inflame You, It Will Make You Mad.

O, Beware, My Lord, Of Jealousy; It Is The Green-ey'd Monster, Which Doth Mock The Meat It Feeds On.

He Was Ever Precise In Promise-keeping.

What Have We Here? A Man Or A Fish? Dead Or Alive? A Fish: He Smells Like A Fish; A Very Ancient And Fishlike Smell; A Kind Of Not Of The Newest Poor-john. A Strange Fish!

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presages Of My Speaking Breast.