The Hand Of Little Employment Hath The

Small Herbs Have Grace, Great Weeds Do Grow Apace.

Our Revels Now Are Ended. These Our Actors, As I Foretold You, Were All Spirits And Are Melted Into Air, Into Thin Air: And, Like The Baseless Fabric Of This Vision, The Cloud-capp'd Towers, The Gorgeous Palaces, The Solemn Temples, The Great Globe Itself, Yea, All Which It Inherit, Shall Dissolve And, Like This Insubstantial Pageant Faded, Leave Not A Rack Behind. We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On, And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

Just Death, Kind Umpire Of Men's Miseries.

There's A Time For All Things.

No Doubt They Rose Up Early To Observe The Rite Of May; And, Hearing Our Intent, Came Here In Grace Of Our Solemnity.