O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

Well, God's Above All; And There Be Souls Must Be Saved, And There Be Souls Must Not Be Saved.

All Is Well Ended, If The Suit Be Won.

Fat Paunches Have Lean Pates, And Dainty Bits Make Rich The Ribs, But Backrout Quite The Wits.

If Chance Will Have Me King, Why, Chance May Crown Me.