I Have Not Slept One Wink.

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

Will You Walk Out Of The Air, My Lord? Hamlet Into My Grave.

If You Can Look Into The Seeds Of Time, And Say Which Grain Will Grow And Which Will Not, Speak Then Unto Me.

Evermore Thanks, The Exchequer Of The Poor

So Distribution Should Undo Excess, And Each Man Have Enough.