Go Hang Yourself, You Naughty

To Persevere In Obstinate Condolement Is A Course Of Impious Stubbornness: 'tis Unmanly Grief.

Taste Your Legs, Sire: Put Them Into Motion.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

But If The While I Think On Thee, Dear Friend, All Losses Are Restored And Sorrows End.

Tis A Happy Thing To Be The Father Unto Many Sons.