I Was A Coward On Instinct.

A Dream Itself Is But A Shadow.

Tomorrow, And Tomorrow, And Tomorrow,creeps In This Petty Pace From Day To Day

Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.

Thrice Is He Arm'd That Hath His Quarrel Just, And He But Naked, Though Lock'd Up In Steel, Whose Conscience With Injustice Is Corrupted.

Now, By The World, It Is A Lusty Wench; I Love Her Ten Times More Than E'er I Did: O, How I Long To Have Some Chat With Her!