I Had Rather Be A Dog, And

How Slow This Old Moon Wanes! She Lingers My Desires, Like To A Stepdame, Or A Dowager, Long Withering Out A Young Man's Revenue.

The Love That Follows Us Sometime Is Our Trouble, Which Still We Thank As Love.

Not All The Water In The Rough Rude Sea Can Wash The Balm From An Anointed King.

Moderate Lamentation Is The Right Of The Dead, Excessive Grief The Enemy To The Living.

Hamlet: Lady, Shall I Lie In Your Lap? Ophelia: No, My Lord. Hamlet: Did You Think I Meant Country Matters? Ophelia: I Think Nothing, My Lord. Hamlet: That's A Fair Thought To Lie Between Maids' Legs. Ophelia: What Is, My Lord? Hamlet: Nothing.