Whiskey

"How solemn and beautiful is the thought, that the earliest pioneer of civilization, the van-leader of civilization, is never the steamboat, never the railroad, never the newspaper, never the Sabbath-school, never the missionary—but always whiskey!" - Mark Twain

Lear

ACT V SCENE II	A field between the two camps.
[ Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours, KING LEAR, CORDELIA, and Soldiers, over the stage; and exeunt ]
[Enter EDGAR and GLOUCESTER]
EDGAR	Here, father, take the shadow of this tree
	For your good host; pray that the right may thrive:
	If ever I return to you again,
	I'll bring you comfort.
GLOUCESTER	Grace go with you, sir!	5
[Exit EDGAR]
[Alarum and retreat within. Re-enter EDGAR]
EDGAR	Away, old man; give me thy hand; away!
	King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en:
	Give me thy hand; come on.
GLOUCESTER	No farther, sir; a man may rot even here.
EDGAR	What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure	10
	Their going hence, even as their coming hither;
	Ripeness is all: come on.
GLOUCESTER	And that's true too.
[Exeunt]

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats

Bloomsday

Macbeth ; act 5 scene 5

...

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, Out, brief candle!

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.

Better Never to Have Been

MUST THE SHOW GO ON?