I Am Sure Care's An Enemy To

To Die, To Sleep - To Sleep, Perchance To Dream - Ay, There's The Rub, For In This Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.

What Is Light, If Sylvia Be Not Seen? What Is Joy If Sylvia Be Not By?

And Either Victory, Or Else A Grave.

[s]ince Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit, And Tediousness The Limbs And Outward Flourishes, I Will Be Brief.

Come, Gentlemen, I Hope We Shall Drink Down All Unkindness.