The Rest, Is Silence.

For In That Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.

I Had As Lief Have Been Myself Alone.

Our Rash Faults Make Trivial Price Of Serious Thing We Have, Not Knowing Them Until We Know Their Grave.

Yet This My Comfort: When Your Words Are Done, My Woes End Likewise With The Evening Sun.

Roses Have Thorns, And Silver Fountains Mud; Clouds And Eclipses Stain Both Moon And Sun, And Loathsome Canker Lies In Sweetest Bud. All Men Make Faults.