Good Luck Lies In Odd Numbers.

I Am Thy Father's Spirit; Doom'd For A Certain Term To Walk The Night And, For The Day, Confin'd To Fast In Fires, Till The Foul Crimes, Done In My Days Of Nature, Are Burnt And Purg'd Away.

Though This Be Madness, Yet There Is Method In't.

Sweetest Nut Hath Sourest Rind.

I Would With Such Perfection Govern, Sir, T'excel The Golden Age.

Sweets To The Sweet.