So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too— Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out— And take upon 's the mystery of things, As if we were God's spies.
The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plainsong cuckoo grey, Whose note full many a man doth mark And dares not answer nay.
Since the affairs of men rest still incertain, Let's reason with the worst that may befall.
The long day's task is done, And we must sleep.
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, th' ear-piercing fife, The royal banner and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
Let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon.
These growing feathers plucked from Caesar's wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness.
It is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents and bolts up change.
How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, good fellow? The art of our necessities is strange And can make vile things precious.