All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their

Our Revels Now Are Ended. These Our Actors, As I Foretold You, Were All Spirits And Are Melted Into Air, Into Thin Air: And, Like The Baseless Fabric Of This Vision, The Cloud-capp'd Towers, The Gorgeous Palaces, The Solemn Temples, The Great Globe Itself, Yea, All Which It Inherit, Shall Dissolve And, Like This Insubstantial Pageant Faded, Leave Not A Rack Behind. We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On, And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

Farewell, Good Salisbury, And Good Luck Go With Thee!

Now, My Masters, Happy Man Be His Dole, Say I; Every Man To His Business.

The Evil That Men Do Lives After Them; The Good Is Oft Interred With Their Bones.