Death Is A Fearful Thing.

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 Dusty 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.

I Will Kill Thee A Hundred And Fifty Ways.

I Am Declined Into The Vale Of Years.

I Will Keep Where There Is Wit Stirring, And Leave The Faction Of Fools.

The Bay-trees In Our Country Are All Withered, And Meteors Fright The Fixèd Stars Of Heaven. The Pale-faced Moon Looks Bloody On The Earth, And Lean-looked Prophets Whisper Fearful Change. Rich Men Look Sad, And Ruffians Dance And Leap; The One In Fear To Lose What They Enjoy, The Other To Enjoy By Rage And War. These Signs Forerun The Death Or Fall Of Kings.