For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words

It Is Not Vain Glory For A Man And His Glass To Confer In His Own Chamber.

I Am That Merry Wanderer Of The Night.

But, Soft! What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks? It Is The East, And Juliet Is The Sun.

To Die: - To Sleep: No More; And, By A Sleep To Say We End The Heart-ache And The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To, 'tis A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished.

All Hoods Make Not Monks.