Good Morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All

Foul Whisperings Are Abroad

But That The Dread Of Something After Death, The Undiscover'd Country From Whose Bourn No Traveller Returns, Puzzles The Will And Makes Us Rather Bear Those Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of?

The Earth, That Is Nature's Mother, Is Her Tomb.

The Rain, It Raineth Every Day.

To Fear The Foe, Since Fear Oppresseth Strength, Gives In Your Weakness Strength Unto Your Foe.