I'll Fight, Till From My Bones My

He That Dies This Year Is Quit For The Next.

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Or Anger

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

To Bed, To Bed; Sleep Kill Those Pretty Eyes, And Give As Soft Attachment To Thy Senses, As Infants Empty Of All Thought.

A Little More Than Kin, And Less Than Kind.