What A Piece Of Work Is A

Blood Will Have Blood.

Be Not Afeard; The Isle Is Full Of Noises, Sounds, And Sweet Airs, That Give Delight And Hurt Not. Sometimes A Thousand Twangling Instruments Will Hum About Mine Ears; And Sometime Voices, That, If I Then Had Waked After Long Sleep, Will Make Me Sleep Again: And Then, In Dreaming, The Clouds Methought Would Open, And Show Riches Ready To Drop Upon Me; That, When I Waked, I Cried To Dream Again.

Thou Mak'st Me Merry: I Am Full Of Pleasure; Let Us Be Jocund

I Am Afeard There Are Few Die Well That Die In Battle, For How Can They Charitably Dispose Of Anything When Blood Is Their Argument?

How Long A Time Lies In One Little Word?