Speak Low, If You Speak

Some Grief Shows Much Of Love, But Much Of Grief Shows Still Some Want Of Wit.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand? Come, Let Me Clutch Thee. I Have Thee Not, And Yet I See Thee Still. Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feeling As To Sight? Or Art Thou But A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?

A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun.

And To Be Merry Best Becomes You; For, Out Of Question, You Were Born In A Merry Hour. Beatrice No, Sure, My Lord, My Mother Cried; But Then There Was A Star Danced, And Under That Was I Born.