I Never Yet Did Hear, That The

He Is The Half Part Of A Blessed Man, Left To Be Finished By Such As She; And She A Fair Divided Excellence, Whose Fullness Of Perfection Lies In Him.

If It Be True That Good Wine Needs No Bush, 'tis True That A Good Play Needs No Epilogue.

I Despised My Arrival On This Earth And I Despise My Departure; It Is A Tragedy.

Seems," Madam? Nay, It Is; I Know Not "seems." 'tis Not Alone My Inky Cloak, Good Mother, Nor Customary Suits Of Solemn Black, Nor Windy Suspiration Of Forced Breath, No, Nor The Fruitful River In The Eye, Nor The Dejected 'havior Of The Visage, Together With All Forms, Moods, Shapes Of Grief, That Can Denote Me Truly: These Indeed Seem, For They Are Actions That A Man Might Play: But I Have That Within Which Passeth Show; These But The Trappings And The Suits Of Woe.

My Dear, Dear Lord, The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Afford Is Spotless Reputation; That Away Men Are But Gilded Loan Or Painted Clay... Mine Honor Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honor From Me, And My Life Is Done.