You Lack The Season Of All Natures,

If It Were Done When 'tis Done, Then 'twere Well. It Were Done Quickly.

Methinks A Father Is At The Nuptial Of His Son A Guest That Best Becomes The Table.

Falsehood Falsehood Cures

Milk-livered Man, That Bear'st A Cheek For Blows, A Head For Wrongs; Who Hast Not In Thy Brows An Eye Discerning Thine Honor From Thy Suffering; [that Not Know'st Fools Do Those Villains Pity Who Are Punished Ere They Have Done Their Mischief. Where's Thy Drum? France Spreads His Banners In Our Noiseless Land, With Plumed Helm Thy State Begins To Threat, Whilst Thou, A Moral Fool, Sits Still And Cries 'alack, Why Does He So?']

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.