All The World Is A Stage And

The Elephant Hath Joints, But None For Courtesy; His Legs Are Legs For Necessity, Not For Flexure.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

Thank Me No Thankings, Nor Proud Me No Prouds.

What Early Tongue So Sweet Saluteth Me?

Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful Neighs Piercing The Night's Dull Ear; And From The Tents The Armorers Accomplishing The Knights, With Busy Hammers Closing Rivets Up, Give Dreadful Note Of Preparation.