But I Am Constant As The Northern

But That The Dread Of Something After Death, The Undiscover'd Country From Whose Bourn No Traveller Returns, Puzzles The Will And Makes Us Rather Bear Those Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of?

Moderate Lamentation Is The Right Of The Dead, Excessive Grief The Enemy To The Living.

Can It Be Chat Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness?

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

I Like Not Fair Terms And A Villain's Mind.