O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.

The will is infinite and the execution confin'd, the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.

Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.

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.

Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.