Dreams Are The Children Of Idled Minds.

Thus Conscience Does Make Cowards Of Us All; And Thus The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Slicked O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought

The Will Is Deaf And Hears No Heedful Friends.

Thine Eyes I Love, And They, As Pitying Me, Knowing Thy Heart Torment Me With Disdain, Have Put On Black And Loving Mourners Be, Looking With Pretty Ruth Upon My Pain. And Truly Not The Morning Sun Of Heaven Better Becomes The Grey Cheeks Of The East, Nor That Full Star That Ushers In The Even, Doth Half That Glory To The Sober West, As Those Two Mourning Eyes Become Thy Face: O! Let It Then As Well Beseem Thy Heart To Mourn For Me Since Mourning Doth Thee Grace, And Suit Thy Pity Like In Every Part. Then Will I Swear Beauty Herself Is Black, And All They Foul That Thy Complexion Lack

For Never Was A Story Of More Woe Than This Of Juliet And Her Romeo.

Rich Honesty Dwells Like A Miser, Sir, In A Poor House; As Your Pearl In Your Foul Oyster.