Tis The Mind That Makes

To Die, To Sleep - To Sleep, Perchance To Dream - Ay, There's The Rub, For In This Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.

Now No Way Can I Stray; Save Back To England, All The World's My Way.

Give Every Man Thine Ear, But Few Thy Voice; Take Each Man's Censure, But Reserve Thy Judgment.

The Sweetest Honey Is Loathsome In His Own Deliciousness.

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.