So Many Horrid Ghosts.

Wait For The Season When To Cast Good Counsels Upon Subsiding Passion.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

Hamlet: Lady, Shall I Lie In Your Lap? Ophelia: No, My Lord. Hamlet: Did You Think I Meant Country Matters? Ophelia: I Think Nothing, My Lord. Hamlet: That's A Fair Thought To Lie Between Maids' Legs. Ophelia: What Is, My Lord? Hamlet: Nothing.

Things May Serve Long, But Not Serve Ever.

A Golden Mind Stoops Not To Shows Of Dross.