If Music Be The Food Of Love,

Kent. Where's The King? Gent. Contending With The Fretful Elements; Bids The Wind Blow The Earth Into The Sea, Or Swell The Curled Waters 'bove The Main, That Things Might Change Or Cease; Tears His White Hair, Which The Impetuous Blasts, With Eyeless Rage, Catch In Their Fury And Make Nothing Of; Strives In His Little World Of Man To Outscorn The To-and-fro-conflicting Wind And Rain. This Night, Wherein The Cub-drawn Bear Would Couch, The Lion And The Belly-pinched Wolf Keep Their Fur Dry, Unbonneted He Runs, And Bids What Will Take All.

Hope Is A Lover's Staff; Walk Hence With That And Manage It Against Despairing Thoughts.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head?

You Know Who You Are, But Know Not Who You Could Be.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.