Allow Not Nature More Than Nature Needs.

An Envious Fever Of Pale And Bloodless Emulation.

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

Thou Art The Best O' The Cut-throats

Come, Lady, Die To Live.

To Die, To Sleep - To Sleep, Perchance To Dream - Ay, There's The Rub, For In This Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.