Music, Moody Food Of Us That Trade

I Will Despair, And Be At Enmity With Cozening Hope.

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief? O Sweet My Mother, Cast Me Not Away! Delay This Marriage For A Month, A Week, Or If You Do Not, Make The Bridal Bed In That Dim Monument Where Tybalt Lies.

The Bitter Past, More Welcome Is The Sweet.

The Play's The Thing, Wherein I'll Catch The Conscience Of The King.

But Clay And Clay Differs In Dignity, Whose Dust Is Both Alike.