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Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court ? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference; as the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity ; Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
The reason is, your spirits are attentive :
If music be the food of love, play on,
Reason thus with life :If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep. A breath thou art, Servile to all the skiey influences, That do this habitation, where thou keep'st, Hourly afflict : merely, thou art Death's fool; For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun, Yet run'st toward him still: thou art by no means valiant, For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm: thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more : thou’rt not thyself ; For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains That issue oụt of dust : happy thou art not; For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get; And what thou hast, forget'st : thou art not certain ; For thy complexion shifts to strange effects After the moon : if thou art rich, thou art poor ; For like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee : friend hast thou none; For thy own bowels, which do call thee sire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins, Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, For ending thee no sooner : thou hast nor youth nor age; But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, Dreaming on both ; for all thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld; and when thou art old, and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this
All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits and their entrances ; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. And then, the whining school. boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, the soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard; Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice; In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon; With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, . Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
The quality of mercy is not strained ;
is above this sceptred sway,
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !