Presume Not That I Am The Thing

Mend When Thou Canst; Be Better At Thy Leisure.

Words Without Thoughts Never To Heaven Go.

The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strained

Enjoy'd No Sooner But Despised Straight, Past Reason Hunted, And No Sooner Had Past Reason Hated

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!