When Death Doth Close His Tender Dying

Most Dear Actors, Eat No Onions Nor Garlic, For We Are To Utter Sweet Breath.

Thus Hath The Candle Sing'd The Moth. O These Deliberate Fools!

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.

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?

Swear Me, Kate, Like A Lady As Thou Art, A Good Mouth-filling Oath.