I Must Be Cruel, Only To Be

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself

I Think Thy Horse Will Sooner Con An Oration Than Thou Learn A Prayer Without Book.

The Thorny Point Of Bare Distress Hath Ta'en From Me The Show Of Smooth Civility; Yet Am I Inland Bred And Know Some Nurture.

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates. The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In Ourselves, That We Are Underlings.

Be Cheerful; Wipe Thine Eyes: Some Falls Are Means The Happier To Arise