The Empty Vessel Makes The Loudest Sound.

Her Passions Are Made Of Nothing But The Finest Part Of Pure Love

Yet Mark'd I Where The Bolt Of Cupid Fell: It Fell Upon A Little Western Flower, Before Milk-white, Now Purple With Love's Wound, And Maidens Call It Love-in-idleness.

I Count Myself In Nothing Else So Happy As In A Soul Remembering My Good Friends

Lay Her I' The Earth: And From Her Fair And Unpolluted Flesh May Violets Spring! I Tell Thee, Churlish Priest, A Ministering Angel Shall My Sister Be, When Thou Liest Howling. Hamlet. What, The Fair Ophelia! Queen Gertrude. Sweets To The Sweet: Farewell!

Thou Sodden-witted Lord! Thou Hast No More Brain Than I Have In Mine Elbows.