I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven, or to hell.
But we are spirits of another sort. I with the morning's love have oft made sport, And like a forester the groves may tread Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red, Opening on Neptune with fair blessèd beams, Turns unto yellow gold his salt green streams.
Once more, adieu. The rest let sorrow say.
Earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she; She is the hopeful lady of my earth.
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hooves i' the receiving earth; For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings.
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream,
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime.
'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after.
Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer: the welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing.
Gloucester. I hope they will not come upon us now. King Henry. We are in God's hands, brother, not in theirs.