O Death, Made Proud With Pure And

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

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On.

All Difficulties Are Easy When They Are Known.

Though Now This Grained Face Of Mine Be Hid In Sap-consuming Winter's Drizzled Snow, And All The Conduits Of My Blood Froze Up, Yet Hath My Night Of Life Some Memory, My Wasting Lamps Some Fading Glimmer Left, My Dull Deaf Ears A Little Use To Hear.

They Told Me I Was Everything. 'tis A Lie, I Am Not Ague-proof.