A Table-full Of Welcome!

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say!

The Teeming Autumn Big With Rich Increase, Bearing The Wanton Burden Of The Prime Like Widowed Wombs After Their Lords Decease.

Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety.

Do You Bite Your Thumb At Us, Sir?

The Sweets We Wish For, Turn To Loathed Sours, Even In The Moment That We Call Them Ours.