The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.

Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.

I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.

I'll teach you differences.

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

This we prescribe, though no physician; Deep malice makes too deep incision; Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed; Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.

My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.