Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.

Lay her i' the earth: And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia! QUEEN GERTRUDE. Sweets to the sweet: farewell!

Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

For who so firm that cannot be seduced?

And too soon Marred are those so early Made.

And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge.