Faults That Are Rich Are Fair.

Not That I Loved Caesar Less, But That I Loved Rome More.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy.

Well, Every One Can Master A Grief But He That Has It.

Few Things Loves Better Than To Abhor Himself.

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry; But Were We Burdened With Light Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain.