Let Me Be Boiled To Death With

Take All The Swift Advantage Of The Hours.

Let Life Be Short, Else Shame Will Be Too Long.

But I Will Be, A Bridegroom In My Death, And Run Into't As To A Lover's Bed.

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.

Plutus Himself, That Knows The Tinct And Multiplying Med'cine, Hath Not In Nature's Mystery More Science Than I Have In This Ring.