The Readiness Is All.

What Should A Man Do But Be Merry? For Look You How Cheerfully My Mother Looks, And My Father Died Within's Two Hours.

To Climb Steep Hills Requires A Slow Pace At First.

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.

When A Gentlemen Is Disposed To Swear, It Is Not For Any Standers-by To Curtail His Oaths.

O World, How Apt The Poor Are To Be Proud!