The Rest, Is Silence.

Do You Take Me For A Sponge, My Lord? Hamlet: Ay, Sir; That Soaks Up The King's Countenance, His Rewards, His Authorities. But Such Officers Do The King Best Service In The End: He Keeps Them, Like An Ape, In The Corner Of His Jaw; First Mouthed, To Be Last Swallowed: When He Needs What You Have Gleaned, It Is But Squeezing You, And, Sponge, You Shall Be Dry Again. Rosencrantz: I Understand You Not, My Lord. Hamlet: I Am Glad Of It: A Knavish Speech Sleeps In A Foolish Ear.

Diseased Nature Oftentimes Breaks Forth In Strange Eruptions.

The Force Of His Own Merit Makes His Way-a Gift That Heaven Gives For Him.

This Most Excellent Canopy, The Air, Look You, This Brave O-erhanging Firmament, This Majestical Roof Fretted With Golden Fire.

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.