The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such

Men Must Endure Their Going Hence, Even As Their Coming Hither. Ripeness Is All.

There Is Flattery In Friendship.

Give Me A Staff Of Honor For Mine Age, But Not A Sceptre To Control The World.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

And Flights Of Angels Sing Thee To Thy Rest!