The Arms Are Fair, When The Intent

But I Am Constant As The Northern Star, Of Whose True Fixed And Resting Quality There Is No Fellow In The Firmament.

A Jest's Prosperity Lies In The Ear

To Sleep Perchance To Dream

World, World, O World! But That Thy Strange Mutations Make Us Hate Thee/ Life Would Not Yield To Age.

Romeo There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murders In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell. I Sell Thee Poison; Thou Hast Sold Me None. Farewell: Buy Food, And Get Thyself In Flesh. Come, Cordial And Not Poison, Go With Me To Juliet's Grave; For There Must I Use Thee.