Muster Your Wits; Stand In Your Own

Bell, Book And Candle Shall Not Drive Me Back, When Gold And Silver Becks Me To Come On.

Beware The Ides Of March.

England, Bound In With The Triumphant Sea, Whose Rocky Shore Beats Back The Envious Siege Of Watery Neptune.

Ever Note, Lucilius, When Love Begins To Sicken And Decay It Useth An Enforced Ceremony. There Are No Tricks In Plain And Simple Faith; But Hollow Men, Like Horses Hot At Hand, Make Gallant Show And Promise Of Their Mettle; But When They Should Endure The Bloody Spur, They Fall Their Crests, And Like Deceitful Jades Sink In The Trial.

Hear Me Profess Sincerely: Had I A Dozen Sons, Each In My Love Alike, And None Less Dear Than Thine And My Good Marcius, I Had Rather Have Eleven Die Nobly For Their Country Than One Voluptuously Surfeit Out Of Action.