true apothecary thy drugs art quick

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

Heaven - the treasury of everlasting life.

Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.

To persist in doing wrong extenuates not the wrong, but makes it much more heavy.

What is more miserable than discontent?

There's an old saying that applies to me: you can't lose a game if you don't play the game. (Act 1, scene 4)