Lady, With Me, With Me Thy Fortune

Bid The Dishonest Man Mend Himself; If He Mend, He Is No Longer Dishonest.

To-morrow, And To-morrow, And To-morrow, Creeps In This Petty Pace From Day To Day, To The Last Syllable Of Recorded Time; And All Our Yesterdays Have Lighted Fools The Way To Dusty Death. Out, Out, Brief Candle! 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.

I Long To Hear The Story Of Your Life, Which Must Take The Ear Strangely.

One Whom The Music Of His Own Vain Tongue Doth Ravish Like Enchanting Harmony.

Is She Not Passing Fair?