There Is No Vice So Simple But

I Had Rather Live With Cheese And Garlic In A Windmill.

Against Self-slaughter There Is A Prohibition So Divine That Cravens My Weak Hand.

What Drink'st Thou Oft, Instead Of Homage Sweet, But Poisoned Flattery?

Conscience Is But A Word That Cowards Use, Devised At First To Keep The Strong In Awe

The Latter End Of A Fray, And The Beginning Of A Feast, Fits A Dull Fighter, And A Keen Guest.