Like A Barber's Chair That Fits All

This Is The Very Ecstasy Of Love, Whose Violent Property Ordoes Itself And Leads The Will To Desperate Undertakings.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

That's A Valiant Flea That Dares Eat His Breakfast On The Lip Of A Lion.

For Death Remembered Should Be Like A Mirror, Who Tells Us Life’s But Breath, To Trust It Error.

Romeo: Courage, Man; The Hurt Cannot Be Much. Mercutio: No, 'tis Not So Deep As A Well, Nor So Wide As A Church-door; But 'tis Enough, 'twill Serve. Ask For Me Tomorrow, And You Shall Find Me A Grave Man.