Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.

After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered; for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.

The rest, is silence.

Seek happy nights to happy days.W