The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.

The past is prologue.

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech.

O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!

I...Kisss the tender inward of thy hand.