Misery Makes Sport To Mock Itself.

Prophet May You Be! If I Be False, Or Swerve A Hair From Truth, When Time Is Old And Hath Forgot Itself, When Waterdrops Have Worn The Stones Of Troy, And Blind Oblivion Swallowed Cities Up, And Mighty States Characterless Are Grated To Dusty Nothing, Yet Let Memory, From False To False, Among False Maids In Love, Upbraid My Falsehood!

Friendly Counsel Cuts Off Many Foes.

It Is Thyself, Mine Own Self's Better Part; Mine Eye's Clear Eye, My Dear Heart's Dearer Heart; My Food, My Fortune, And My Sweet Hope's Aim, My Sole Earth's Heaven, And My Heaven's Claim.

To Be, Or Not To Be, That Is The Question: Whether 'tis Nobler In The Mind To Suffer The Slings And Arrows Of Outrageous Fortune, Or To Take Arms Against A Sea Of Troubles, And By Opposing End Them: 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. To Die To Sleep, To Sleep, Perchance To Dream; Aye, There's The Rub.

Is Love A Tender Thing? It Is Too Rough, Too Rude, Too Boisterous, And It Pricks Like Thorn.