Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

Give Thy Thoughts No Tongue.

Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow.

A Lean Cheek; Which You Have Not: A Blue Eye, And Sunken; Which You Have Not: An Unquestionable Spirit; Which You Have Not: A Beard Neglected; Which You Have Not: — But I Pardon You For That; For, Simply, Your Having1 In Beard Is A Younger Brother's Revenue: — Then Your Hose Should Be Ungarter'd, Your Bonnet Unhanded, Your Sleeve Unbuttoned, Your Shoe Untied, And Every Thing About You Demonstrating A Careless Desolation.

Captain Of Our Fairy Band, Helena Is Here At Hand, And The Youth, Mistook By Me, Pleading For A Lover's Fee. Shall We Their Fond Pageant See? Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?