Hang on everybody, here we go…. If music be the food of love, play on. Such stuff as dreams are made on. Is whispering nothing? All that glisters is not gold. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Get thee to a nunnery. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars. I am dying, Egypt, dying. Now go we in content. My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Come, let’s away to prison; We two alone will sing. I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. A plague on both your houses. Let every eye negotiate for itself.