That, Sir, Which Serves And Seeks For

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners.

Tomorrow, And Tomorrow, And Tomorrow,creeps In This Petty Pace From Day To Day

Give Me Mine Angle, We'll To Th' River: There, My Music Playing Far Off, I Will Betray Tawny-finned Fishes. My Bended Hook Shall Pierce Their Slimy Jaws; And As I Draw Them Up, I'll Think Them Every One An Antony, And Say, 'ah, Ha! Are Caught!'

When Great Leaves Fall, The Winter Is At Hand.

Oh, That Way Madness Lies; Let Me Shun That.