Good Luck Lies In Odd Numbers.

Here, Thou Incestuous, Murderous, Damned Dane, Drink Off This Potion!

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

Covering Discretion With A Coat Of Folly.

Her Father Lov'd Me; Oft Invited Me; Still Question'd Me The Story Of My Life, From Year To Year, The Battles, Sieges, Fortunes, That I Have Pass'd.

Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave My Heart Into My Mouth.