When We Are Born We Cry That

Tis The Mind That Makes The Body Rich.

This Rough Magic I Here Abjure And When I Have Required Some Heavenly Music, Which Even Now I Do, To Work Mine End Upon Their Senses That This Airy Charm Is For, I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book.

Good Luck Lies In Odd Numbers.

I Have Pursued Her, As Love Hath Pursued Me

Ships Are But Boards, Sailors But Men.