Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary

But That The Dread Of Something After Death, The Undiscover'd Country From Whose Bourn No Traveller Returns, Puzzles The Will And Makes Us Rather Bear Those Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of?

Youth To Itself Rebels, Though None Else Near.

Your Tale, Sir, Would Cure Deafness.

Bell, Book And Candle Shall Not Drive Me Back, When Gold And Silver Becks Me To Come On.

To Persevere In Obstinate Condolement Is A Course Of Impious Stubbornness: 'tis Unmanly Grief.