Bondage Is Hoarse, And May Not Speak

The Ides Of March Are Come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; But Not Gone.

Farewell, My Sister, Fare Thee Well. The Elements Be Kind To Thee, And Make Thy Spirits All Of Comfort: Fare Thee Well.

The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks.

But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold, Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang. In Me Thou Seest The Twilight Of Such Day, As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By-and-by Black Night Doth Take Away.