There Is No Slander In

There Is Plenty Of Time To Sleep In The Grave

The Eyes Are The Window To Your Soul

Hear Me Profess Sincerely: Had I A Dozen Sons, Each In My Love Alike, And None Less Dear Than Thine And My Good Marcius, I Had Rather Have Eleven Die Nobly For Their Country Than One Voluptuously Surfeit Out Of Action.

Twas A Clever Quibble. Here, A Garment For It.

The Love Of Wicked Men Converts To Fear; That Fear To Hate, And Hate Turns One Or Both To Worthy Danger And Deserved Death.