What's Done Is Done. The Joy Is

The Evil That Men Do Lives After Them; The Good Is Oft Interred With Their Bones.

They Whose Guilt Within Their Bosom Lies, Imagine Every Eye Beholds Their Blame.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

Away, You Cut-purse Rascal! You Filthy Bung, Away! By This Wine, I'll Thrust My Knife In Your Mouldy Chaps, An You Play The Saucy Cuttle With Me. Away, You Bottle-ale Rascal! You Basket-hilt Stale Juggler, You!

But Let The Frame Of Things Disjoint, Both The Worlds Suffer, Ere We Will Eat Our Meal In Fear, And Sleep In The Affliction Of These Terrible Dreams That Shake Us Nightly.