Adieu, Adieu, Adieu! Remember Me.

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say! One: Two: Why, Then 'tis Time To Do't. Hell Is Murky!

Look On Beauty, And You Shall See 'tis Purchased By The Weight; Which Therein Works A Miracle In Nature, Making Them Lightest That Wear Most Of It: So Are Those Crisped Snaky Golden Locks Which Make Such Wanton Gambols With The Wind Upon Supposed Fairness, Often Known To Be The Dowry Of A Second Head, The Skull That Bred Them In The Sepulchre.

Virtue And Genuine Graces In Themselves Speak What No Words Can Utter.

Conscience Is But A Word That Cowards Use, Devised At First To Keep The Strong In Awe

Give Sorrow Words; The Grief That Does Not Speak Knits Up The O-er Wrought Heart And Bids It Break.