Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich

Preferred three hours quicker over one moment late.

Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Barnes are blessings.

Two households, both alike in dignity In fair Verona, where we lay our scene From ancient grudge break to new mutiny Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife.

The best is yet to come.

It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold.