Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit.

A Very Scurvy Fellow.

We Must Be Brief When Traitors Brave The Field.

Simply The Thing That I Am Shall Make Me Live.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

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!