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BARD TO TEARS: Out, out brief candle . . .

 
 
Setanta
 
Reply Mon 5 Jan, 2004 05:27 pm
Out, out, brief candle!
Life is 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.






isthisguydepressingorwhat?
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Type: Discussion • Score: 0 • Views: 1,140 • Replies: 7
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Mr Stillwater
 
  1  
Reply Mon 5 Jan, 2004 05:35 pm
The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;
The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth
And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change.


...and scary.
0 Replies
 
farmerman
 
  1  
Reply Mon 5 Jan, 2004 06:11 pm
why bringest thee ,all of us down
0 Replies
 
farmerman
 
  1  
Reply Mon 5 Jan, 2004 06:12 pm
The question mark, not writ, is understood
0 Replies
 
SealPoet
 
  1  
Reply Mon 5 Jan, 2004 06:47 pm
Is this a topic I see before me
Keyboard toward my hand?
0 Replies
 
Mr Stillwater
 
  1  
Reply Tue 6 Jan, 2004 06:27 pm
Quote:
Get thee to Gloucester, Essex. Do thee to Wessex, Exeter.
Fair Albany to Somerset must eke his route.
And Scroop, do you to Westmoreland, where shall bold York
Enrouted now for Lancaster, with forces of our Uncle Rutland,
Enjoin his standard with sweet Norfolk's host.
Fair Sussex, get thee to Warwicksbourne,
And there, with frowning purpose, tell our plan
To Bedford's tilted ear, that he shall press
With most insensate speed
And join his warlike effort to bold Dorset's side.
I most royally shall now to bed,
To sleep off all the nonsense I've just said.
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Mr Stillwater
 
  1  
Reply Tue 6 Jan, 2004 06:31 pm
Quote:
Snot: Is it all botched up, then, Master Puke?
Puke: Aye, and marry is, good Master Snot.
More: 'Tis said our Master, the Duke, hath contrived some naughtiness against his son, the King.
Grit: Aye, and it doth confound our merrymaking.
Snot: What say you, Master Puke? I am for Lancaster, and that's to say for good shoe leather.
Grit: Come speak, good Master Puke, or hath the leather blocked up thy tongue?
More: Why then go trippingly upon thy laces, good Grit.
Grit: Art leather laces thy undoing?
More: They shall undo many a fair boot this day.
All: Come, let's to our rural revel and with our song enchant our King.
0 Replies
 
Mr Stillwater
 
  1  
Reply Tue 6 Jan, 2004 06:34 pm
Quote:
Enter Cook and Miller, with swords.
Miller: Why then was this encounter nobly entertained
And so by steel shall this our contest be buckled up.
Come, sir. Let's to it.
Cook: Let's to it.
Good steel, thou shalt thyself in himself embowel.
Miller: Come, sir. (They fight)
Ah ha, a hit!
Cook: No, sir, no hit, a miss! Come, sir, art foppish i' the mouth.

Miller: Oh, God, fair cousin, thou hast done me wrong. (He dies)
Now is steel twixt gut and bladder interposed.
Cook: Oh, saucy Worcester, dost thou lie so still?
Enter Bennett
Bennett: Now hath mortality her tithe collected
And sovereign Albany to the worms his corpse committed.
Yet weep we not; this fustian life is short,
Let's on to Pontefract to sanctify our court.
0 Replies
 
 

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