Great Men Should Drink With Harness On

The Undiscovered Country From Whose Bourn No Traveler Returns.

This Blessèd Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England This Nurse, This Teeming Womb Of Royal Kings, . . . This Land Of Such Dear Souls, This Dear Dear Land.

How Wayward Is This Foolish Love That, Like A Testy Babe, Will Scratch The Nurse And Presently, All Humble, Kiss The Rod.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

Frame Your Mind To Mirth And Merriment Which Bars A Thousand Harms And Lengthens Life.