Servile to all the skyey influences, That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st, Hourly afflict. Thou art by no means valiant; For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm: thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more. SHAKSPEARE: Measure for Measure. LIFE AND DEATH. AY, but to die, and go we know not where, To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot: This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprisoned in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world; or to be worse than worst Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts Imagine howling!-'tis too horrible! The weariest and most loathed worldly life, That age, ache, penury, and impris |