A Plague On Both Your Houses.

I Wish You Well And So I Take My Leave, I Pray You Know Me When We Meet Again.

I Have Thrust Myself Into This Maze, Haply To Wive And Thrive As Best I May.

Assume A Virtue, If You Have It Not. That Monster, Custom, Who All Sense Doth Eat; Of Habits Devil, Is Angel Yet In This.

Fear No More The Heat O' Th' Sun Nor The Furious Winters' Rages; Thou Thy Worldly Task Hast Done, Home Art Gone, And Ta'en Thy Wages. Golden Lads And Girls All Must, As Chimney-sweepers, Come To Dust.

Misery Makes Sport To Mock Itself.