There's Not A Note Of Mine That's

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?

A Peace Is Of The Nature Of A Conquest; For Then Both Parties Nobly Are Subdued, And Neither Party Loser.

Honor's Thought Reigns Solely In The Breast Of Every Man.

Unsubstantial Death Is Amorous.

So Are You To My Thoughts As Food To Life, Or As Sweet Seasoned Showers Are To The Ground.