I Have Very Poor And Unhappy Brains

That, Sir, Which Serves And Seeks For Gain, And Follows But For Form, Will Pack, When It Begins To Rain, And Leave Thee In A Storm.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

Things Past Redress Are Now With Me Past Care

O Gentle Son, Upon The Heat And Flame Of Thy Distemper, Sprinkle Cool Patience.

Were It Good To Set The Exact Wealth Of All Our States All At One Cast? To Set So Rich A Main On The Nice Hazard Of One Doubtful Hour? It Were Not Good.