Would The Cook Were O' My Mind!

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.

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.

Where Every Something, Being Blent Together Turns To A Wild Of Nothing.

Though Authority Be A Stubborn Bear, Yet He Is Oft Let By The Nose With Gold.

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.