The Undiscovered Country From Whose Bourn No

You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

The Brain May Devise Laws For The Blood, But A Hot Temper Leaps O'er A Cold Decree.

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.

All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much Fast.

Though She Be But Little, She Is Fierce!