Good God, The Souls Of All My

Something Is Rotten In The State Of Denmark.

Methinks A Father Is At The Nuptial Of His Son A Guest That Best Becomes The Table.

Make Use Of Time, Let Not Advantage Slip; Beauty Within Itself Should Not Be Wasted: Fair Flowers That Are Not Gather'd In Their Prime Rot And Consume Themselves In Little Time.

Demetrius Relent, Sweet Hermia: And, Lysander, Yield Thy Crazed Title To My Certain Right. Lysander You Have Her Father's Love, Demetrius; Let Me Have Hermia's: Do You Marry Him.

You Blocks, You Stones, You Worse Than Senseless Things!