For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause.

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.

Age cannot wither her nor custom stale Her infinite variety.

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.

In Antiochus and his daughter you have heard of monstrous lust the due and just reward; In Pericles, his queen, and daughter, seen, Although assailed with fortune fierce and keen, Virtue preserved from fell destruction's blast, Led on by heaven, and crowned with joy at last.

But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world now lies he there And none so poor to do him reverence.