Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away

To fear the worst oft cures the worst.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

We are advertis'd by our loving friends.