Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death

Our Revels Now Are Ended. These Our Actors, As I Foretold You, Were All Spirits And Are Melted Into Air, Into Thin Air: And, Like The Baseless Fabric Of This Vision, The Cloud-capp'd Towers, The Gorgeous Palaces, The Solemn Temples, The Great Globe Itself, Yea, All Which It Inherit, Shall Dissolve And, Like This Insubstantial Pageant Faded, Leave Not A Rack Behind. We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On, And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

If Is A Custom, More Honor'd In The Breach Than The Observance.

The Very Firstlings Of My Heart Shall Be The Firstlings Of My Hand.

I Have Pursued Her, As Love Hath Pursued Me

Death Is A Fearful Thing.