Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run

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?

Ships Are But Boards, Sailors But Men; There Be Land-rats And Water-rats, Water-thieves And Land-thieves, I Mean Pirates, And Thenthere Is The Peril Of Waters, Winds, And Rocks.

Our Content Is Our Best Having.

There Is Little Choice In A Barrel Of Rotten Apples.

Ah, What A Sign It Is Of Evil Life, Where Death's Approach Is Seen So Terrible!