Thou Lump Of Foul Deformity!

O, What A World Of Vile Ill-favored Faults, Looks Handsome In Three Hundred Pounds A Year!

What A Piece Of Work Is A Man

There Is None But He Whose Being I Do Fear; And Under Him My Genius Is Rebuked, As It Is Said Mark Antony's Was By Caesar.

To Die: - To Sleep: No More; And, By A Sleep To Say We End The Heart-ache And The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To, 'tis A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished.

He Wears The Rose Of Youth Upon Him.