For In That Sleep Of Death What

A Fool, A Fool! I Met A Fool I' Th' Forest, A Motley Fool! A Miserable World! As I Do Live By Food, I Met A Fool Who Laid Him Down And Basked Him In The Sun And Railed On Lady Fortune In Good Terms, In Good Set Terms, And Yet A Motley Fool.

Beauty Itself Doth Of Itself Persuade The Eyes Of Men Without An Orator.

Thou Art Thy Mother's Glass, And She In Thee Calls Back The Lovely April Of Her Prime...

Ring The Alarum-bell! Blow, Wind! Come, Wrack! At Least We'll Die With Harness On Our Back.

O War! Thou Son Of Hell!