Oh What Fools We Mortals

Ready To Go But Never To Return.

Titus Andronicus, My Lord The Emperor Sends Thee This Word, That, If Thou Love Thy Sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, Or Thyself, Old Titus, Or Any One Of You, Chop Off Your Hand And Send It To The King: He For The Same Will Send Thee Hither Both Thy Sons Alive, And That Shall Be The Ransom For Their Fault.

If You Did Wed My Sister For Her Wealth, Then For Her Wealth's Sake Use Her With More Kindness; Or, If You Like Elsewhere, Do It By Stealth; Muffle Your False Love With Some Show Of Blindness; Let Not My Sister Read It In Your Eye; Be Not Thy Tongue Thy Own Shame's Orator; Look Sweet, Speak Fair, Become Disloyalty; Apparel Vice Like Virtue's Harbinger; Bear A Fair Presence, Though Your Heart Be Tainted; Teach Sin The Carriage Of A Holy Saint; Be Secret-false.

I Hold The World But As The World, Gratiano!

We Are Oft To Blame In This, - 'tis Too Much Proved, - That With Devotion's Visage, And Pios Action We Do Sugar O'er The Devil Himself.