And Either Victory, Or Else A Grave.

We Cannot All Be Masters.

A Plague Of Sighing And Grief! It Blows A Man Up Like A Bladder.

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!

Thou Hast Not Half That Power To Do Me Harm As I Have To Be Hurt.

In A False Quarrel There Is No True Valor.