Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.

But That The Dread Of Something After Death, The Undiscover'd Country From Whose Bourn No Traveller Returns, Puzzles The Will And Makes Us Rather Bear Those Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of?

Knowing I Lov'd My Books, He Furnish'd Me From Mine Own Library With Volumes That I Prize Above My Dukedom.

A Sad Tale's Best For Winter. I Have One Of Sprites And Goblins.

Thou Mak'st Me Merry: I Am Full Of Pleasure; Let Us Be Jocund

How Long A Time Lies In One Little Word?