Every Man Has His Fault, And Honesty

If All The Year Were Playing Holidays; To Sport Would Be As Tedious As To Work.

In Thy Youth Wast As True A Lover, As Ever Sighed Upon A Midnight Pillow

Give Me A Bowl Of Wine, In This I Bury All Unkindness.

Ross You Must Have Patience, Madam. Lady Macduff He Had None: His Flight Was Madness: When Our Actions Do Not, Our Fears Do Make Us Traitors.

This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To Me A Sterile Promontory.