Why, Then The World ’s Mine Oyster,

But That The Dread Of Something After Death, The Undiscover'd Country From Whose Bourn No Traveller Returns, Puzzles The Will And Makes Us Rather Bear Those Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of?

The Rain, It Raineth Every Day.

Virtue That Transgresses Is But Patched With Sin; And Sin That Amends Is But Patched With Virtue.

Truly The Souls Of Men Are Full Of Dread: Ye Cannot Reason Almost With A Man That Looks Not Heavily And Full Of Fear.

The First Thing We Do, Let's Kill All The Lawyers.