“Therein lies the rub.”

“To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?”

“Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly;A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud;A brittle that's broken presently;A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.And as goods lost are seld or never found,As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,As flowers dead lie withered on the ground,As broken glass no cement can redress;So beauty blemished once, for ever lost,In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.”

“Therefore I lie with her and she with me,And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.”

“I'll read enoughWhen I do see the very book indeedWhere all my sins are writ, and that's myself.Give me that glass and therein will I read.No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struckSo many blows upon this face of mineAnd made no deeper wounds?O flattering glass,Like to my followers in prosperityThou dost beguile me!”

“You lie.”

“So. Lie there, my art.”