Leave not a rack behind. Wein are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

LIFE.

[From Macbeth.]

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.

THE VISIONARY DAGGER.
[From Macbeth.]

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind; a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed
brain?

I see the vet, in form as palpable.
As this which now I draw.

Thou marshall'st me the way that I was

Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper'd 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 everything.

THE USES OF ADVERSITY.

[From As You Like It.]

Now my co-mates, and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet

Than that of painted pomp? 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 veno

mous,

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 everything.

And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help:

Go to then; you come to me, and you say,

"Shylock, we would have monies": you say so;

You that did void your rheum upon my beard,

And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold; monies is your suit: What should I say to you? should I not say

"Hath a dog money? is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?"

What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

There is no vice so simple, but assumes Some mark of virtue on its outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins

The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show
likest God's,

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,