The Undeserver May Sleep When The Man

I Will Kill Thee A Hundred And Fifty Ways.

Our Purses Shall Be Proud, Our Garments Poor; For 'tis The Mind That Makes The Body Rich

The Color Of The King Doth Come And Go, Between His Purpose And His Conscience, Like Heralds 'twixt Two Dreadful Battles Set: His Passion Is So Ripe, It Needs Must Break.

O Heaven! Were Man, But Constant, He Were Perfect.

Why, What Should Be The Fear? I Do Not Set My Life At A Pin's Fee.