Thou Art The Mars Of Malcontents.

Fare Thee Well, King: Sith Thus Thou Wilt Appear, Freedom Lives Hence, And Banishment Is Here.

Conscience Is But A Word That Cowards Use, Devised At First To Keep The Strong In Awe

Our Revels Now Are Ended. These Our Actors, As I Foretold You, Were All Spirits And Are Melted Into Air, Into Thin Air: And, Like The Baseless Fabric Of This Vision, The Cloud-capp'd Towers, The Gorgeous Palaces, The Solemn Temples, The Great Globe Itself, Yea, All Which It Inherit, Shall Dissolve And, Like This Insubstantial Pageant Faded, Leave Not A Rack Behind. We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On, And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

You Abilities Are Too Infant-like For Doing Much Alone.

Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.