Believe Then, If You Please, That I

'tis Dangerous To Take A Cold, To Sleep, To Drink; But I Tell You, My Lord Fool, Out Of This Nettle, Danger, We Pluck This Flower, Safety.

Tis But A Base, Ignoble Mind That Mounts No Higher Than A Bird Can Soar.

What's In A Name? That Which We Call A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet.

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

A Horse, A Horse, My Kingdom For A Horse!