The Loyalty, Well Held To Fools, Does

A Smile Cures The Wounding Of A Frown.

Therefore I Tell My Sorrows To The Stones; Who, Though They Cannot Answer My Distress, Yet In Some Sort They Are Better Than The Tribunes, For That They Will Not Intercept My Tale: When I Do Weep, They Humbly At My Feet Receive My Tears And Seem To Weep With Me; And, Were They But Attired In Grave Weeds, Rome Could Afford No Tribune Like To These.

They Whose Guilt Within Their Bosom Lies, Imagine Every Eye Beholds Their Blame.

More Fools Know Jack Fool Than Jack Fool Knows.

And By That Destiny To Perform An Act Whereof What's Past Is Prologue, What To Come In Yours And My Discharge.