But Thought's The Slave Of Life, And

What Have We Here? A Man Or A Fish? Dead Or Alive? A Fish: He Smells Like A Fish; A Very Ancient And Fishlike Smell; A Kind Of Not Of The Newest Poor-john. A Strange Fish!

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates. The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In Ourselves, That We Are Underlings.

But She Makes Hungry Where She Most Satisfies.

The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety Secure.

Hamlet: Lady, Shall I Lie In Your Lap? Ophelia: No, My Lord. Hamlet: Did You Think I Meant Country Matters? Ophelia: I Think Nothing, My Lord. Hamlet: That's A Fair Thought To Lie Between Maids' Legs. Ophelia: What Is, My Lord? Hamlet: Nothing.