But Whate'er I Am, Nor I Nor

O Comfort-killing Night, Image Of Hell, Dim Register And Notary Of Shame, Black Stage For Tragedies And Murders Fell, Vast Sin-concealing Chaos, Nurse Of Blame!

How Much Salt Water Thrown Away In Waste/ To Season Love, That Of It Doth Not Taste.

My Love Admits No Qualifying Dross

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates. The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In Ourselves, That We Are Underlings.

Rest You Fair, Good Signior; Your Worship Was The Last Man In Our Mouths.