I Am Ill At These Numbers.

This Rough Magic I Here Abjure And When I Have Required Some Heavenly Music, Which Even Now I Do, To Work Mine End Upon Their Senses That This Airy Charm Is For, I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book.

I Will Not Be Sworn But Love May Transform Me To An Oyster; But I'll Take My Oath On It, Till He Have Made An Oyster Of Me He Shall Never Make Me Such A Fool.

We Make Guilty Of Our Disasters The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars; As If We Were Villians By Compulsion.

This Is No Time To Lend Money, Especially Upon Bare Friendship Without Security.

Will You Walk Out Of The Air, My Lord? Hamlet Into My Grave.