And Send Him Many Years Of Sunshine

Sir, He's A Good Dog, And A Fair Dog.

Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run Fast.

Seems," Madam? Nay, It Is; I Know Not "seems." 'tis Not Alone My Inky Cloak, Good Mother, Nor Customary Suits Of Solemn Black, Nor Windy Suspiration Of Forced Breath, No, Nor The Fruitful River In The Eye, Nor The Dejected 'havior Of The Visage, Together With All Forms, Moods, Shapes Of Grief, That Can Denote Me Truly: These Indeed Seem, For They Are Actions That A Man Might Play: But I Have That Within Which Passeth Show; These But The Trappings And The Suits Of Woe.

We Must Be Gentle Now We Are Gentlemen.

I Will Do Anything, Nerissa, Ere I'll Be Married To A Sponge.