What's Done Cannot Be Undone. To Bed,

Therefore The Moon, The Governess Of Floods, Pale In Her Anger Washes All The Air, That Rheumatic Diseases Do Abound; And Through This Distemperature We See The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

When A Wise Man Gives Thee Better Counsel, Give Me Mine Again.

There's A Divinity That Shapes Our Ends, Rough-hew Them How We Will.

To Sleep Perchance To Dream

How Many Ages Hence Shall This Our Lofty Scene Be Acted Over In States Unborn And Accents Yet Unknown!