We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are

Or Art Thou But / A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, / Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?

We Wound Our Modesty And Make Foul The Clearness Of Our Deservings, When Of Ourselves We Publish Them.

Cupid Is A Knavish Lad, Thus To Make Poor Females Mad.

Where Every Something, Being Blent Together Turns To A Wild Of Nothing.

And In The Morn And Liquid Dew Of Youth, Contagious Blastments Are Are Most Imminent.