A Little More Than Kin, And Less

I Do Desire We May Be Better Strangers.

God Mark Thee To His Grace! Thou Was The Prettiest Babe That E'er I Nursed. And Might I Live To See Thee Married Once, I Have My Wish.

The Play's The Thing.

Life's But A Walking Shadow, A Poor Player, That Struts And Frets His Hour Upon The Stage, And Then Is Heard No More; It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.

In A False Quarrel There Is No True Valor.