The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe

To Kill, I Grant, Is Sin's Extremest Gust; But, In Defence, By Mercy, 'tis Most Just.

All The World's A Stage, And All The Men And Women Merely Players: They Have Their Exits And Their Entrances; And One Man In His Time Plays Many Parts, His Acts Being Seven Ages.

Thus Conscience Does Make Cowards Of Us All; And Thus The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Slicked O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought

In Thee Thy Mother Dies, Our Household's Name, My Death's Revenge, Thy Youth, And England's Fame.

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.