Is This A Dagger Which I See

Good Night, Good Night! Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow, That I Shall Say Good Night Till It Be Morrow.

O Jest Unseen, Inscrutable, Invisible, As A Nose On A Man's Face, Or A Weathercock On A Steeple.

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

There's Many A Man Hath More Hair Than Wit.