Fight, Gentlemen Of England! Fight, Bold Yeomen!

To-morrow, And To-morrow, And To-morrow, Creeps In This Petty Pace From Day To Day, To The Last Syllable Of Recorded Time; And All Our Yesterdays Have Lighted Fools The Way To Dusty Death. Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow, A Poor Player, That Struts And Frets His Hour Upon The Stage, And Then Is Heard No More. It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.

Out, You Tallow-face! You Baggage!

Honor, Riches, Marriage-blessing Long Continuance, And Increasing, Hourly Joys Be Still Upon You!

That Man That Hath A Tongue, I Say Is No Man, If With His Tongue He Cannot Win A Woman.

Heaven Is Above All Yet; There Sits A Judge, That No King Can Corrupt.