Unquiet Meals Make Ill Digestions.

By The Pricking Of My Thumbs, Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Fair Is Foul, And Foul Is Fair, Hover Through Fog And Filthy Air.

Some Are Born Great, Others Achieve Greatness.

Nay, We Must Think Men Are Not Gods, Nor Of Them Look For Such Observancy As Fits The Bridal.

Say, Thou Art Mine; And Ever, My Love, As It Begins, Shall So Persevere