As You Are Old And

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

Britain Is A World By Itself, And We Will Nothing Pay For Wearing Our Own Noses.

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!

We Know What We Are, But Know Not What We May Be.

A Peace Is Of The Nature Of A Conquest; For Then Both Parties Nobly Are Subdued, And Neither Party Loser.