Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

It Is In Pardoning That We Are Pardoned.

O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You Thief Of Love!

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.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

Oh, That Way Madness Lies; Let Me Shun That.