Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The

Gold Were As Good As Twenty Orators.

Heaven Give You Many, Many Merry Days.

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?

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

Thou Shalt Not Stir One Foot To Seek A Foe.