He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.

God send everyone their heart's desire!

To sleep perchance to dream

I rather would entreat thy company; To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

Blood will have blood.