So Every Bondman In His Own Hand

Thou Art A Boil, A Plague Sore, An Embossed Carbuncle In My Corrupted Blood.

To Persevere In Obstinate Condolement Is A Course Of Impious Stubbornness: 'tis Unmanly Grief.

Past And To Come, Seems Best; Things Present, Worse.

Let Us Be Diana's Foresters, Gentlemen Of The Shade, Minions Of The Moon

Many A Man's Tongue Shakes Out His Master's Undoing.