What A Piece Of Work Is A

Tis An Ill Cook That Cannot Lick His Own Fingers.

This Cold Night Will Turn Us All To Fools And Madmen.

What's Done Is Done. The Joy Is In The Doing.

How Slow This Old Moon Wanes! She Lingers My Desires, Like To A Stepdame, Or A Dowager, Long Withering Out A Young Man's Revenue.

My Only Love Sprung From My Only Hate! Too Early Seen Unknown, And Known Too Late! Prodigious Birth Of Love It Is To Me, That I Must Love A Loathed Enemy.