And Thou, All-shaking Thunder, Strike Flat The

Men Of Few Words Are The Best Men." (3.2.41)

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears.

Merciful Heaven, Thou Rather With Thy Sharp And Sulphurous Bolt Splits The Unwedgeable And Gnarled Oak Than The Soft Myrtle; But Man, Proud Man, Dressed In A Little Brief Authority, Most Ignorant Of What He's Most Assured His Glassy Essence--like An Angry Ape Plays Such Fantastic Tricks Before High Heaven As Makes The Angels Weep; Who, With Our Spleens, Would All Themselves Laugh Mortal.

O Fortune, Fortune! All Men Call Thee Fickle.

We Waste Our Lights In Vain, Like Lamps By Day.