When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn away,
And lose the name of action.

(Shakespeare.)

HE should have died hereafter;

There would have been a time for such a

word.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusky death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale,

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

(Shakespeare.)

EAVEN and yourself

Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,

And all the better is it for the maid:

Your part in her you could not keep from death,
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion,

For 'twas your heaven she should be advanced ;
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O, in this love, ye love your child so ill,
That you run mad, seeing that she is well.
(Shakespeare.)

WARWICK.

H, who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe,

wick?

And tell me who is victor, York or War

Why ask I that? my mangled body shows,

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows

That I must yield my body to the earth,

And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.
Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept,

Whose top branch overpeered Jove's spreading

tree,

And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind. These eyes, that now are dimmed with death's black

veil,

Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun

To search the secret treasons of the world:
The wrinkles of my brow, now filled with blood,
Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres ;

For who lived king, but I could dig his grave?

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his

brow?

Lo, now my glory, smeared in dust and blood,

My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,

Even now forsake me, and of all my lands
Is nothing left me but my body's length.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?

And live we how we can, yet die we must.

(Shakespeare.)