I Have Very Poor And Unhappy Brains

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

Make Use Of Time, Let Not Advantage Slip.

Thrice Is He Arm'd That Hath His Quarrel Just, And He But Naked, Though Lock'd Up In Steel, Whose Conscience With Injustice Is Corrupted.

O War! Thou Son Of Hell!

The Play's The Thing.