A Great Cause Of The Night Is

If People Knew How Much I Hated Them, They'd Love Me For Holding It In.

Life's But A Walking Shadow, A Poor Player, That Struts And Frets His Hour Upon The Stage, And Then Is Heard No More; It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.

Is He On His Horse? O Happy Horse, To Bear The Weight Of Antony!

The Will Of Man Is By His Reason Sway'd.

Suspicion Shall Be All Stuck Full Of Eyes.