Your Bait Of Falsehood Takes This Carp

I Count Myself In Nothing Else So Happy As In A Soul Remembering My Good Friends

To Thine Own Self Be True, And It Must Follow, As The Night The Day, Thou Canst Not Then Be False To Any Man.

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?

Many Can Brook The Weather That Love Not The Wind.

He Was Ever Precise In Promise-keeping.