We May Outrun By Violent Swiftness And

With Mirth And Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come. And Let My Liver Rather Heat With Wine, Than My Heart Cool With Mortifying Groans.

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates. The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In Ourselves, That We Are Underlings.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?

When Words Are Scarce They Are Seldom Spent In Vain.

I Had As Lief Have Been Myself Alone.