Earth-treading Stars That Make Dark Heaven Light

O, Here Will I Set Up My Everlasting Rest And Shake The Yoke Of Inauspicious Stars From The World-wearied Flesh

Romeo, Romeo, Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?

A Goodly Portly Man, I' Faith, And A Corpulent; Of A Cheerful Look, A Pleasing Eye, And A Most Noble Carriage; And, As I Think, His Age Some Fifty, Or, By'r Lady, Inclining To Threescore; And Now I Remember Me, His Name Is Falstaff.

It Is The Cowish Terror Of His Spirit That Dares Not Undertake; He'll Not Feel Wrongs Which Tie Him To An Answer.

Nor Stony Tower, Nor Walls Of Beaten Brass, Nor Airless Dungeon, Nor Strong Links Of Iron, Can Be Retentive To The Strength Of Spirit; But Life, Being Weary Of These Worldly Bars, Never Lacks Power To Dismiss Itself.