Tis A Cruelty To Load A Fallen

Heaven Would That She These Gifts Should Have, And I To Live And Die Her Slave.

Poor And Content, Is Rich And Rich Enough; But Riches, Fineless, Is As Poor As Winter, To Him That Ever Fears He Shall Be Poor.

Methinks You Are My Glass, And Not My Brother: I See By You I Am A Sweet-faced Youth.

Polonius: What Do You Read, My Lord? Hamlet: Words, Words, Words.

He Lives In Fame That Died In Virtue's Cause.