"O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!" sighed Shakespeare, like his own Rosalind, as, flinging himself beneath the broad and leafy boughs, he became submerged in the infinite, the maternal peace of Nature. Shortly, as darkness deepened, he would return to his lonely room in Silver Street, challenged by the watch and replying in some gay jest: shortly he would toss upon a sleepless bed, consumed by violent and varied emotions, until the cooler wind that comes with dawn should soothe him into rest. But now he lay, like the three wanderers in Arden, against the bole of a huge oak, watching the glow-worms gleaming around and the stars stealing forth above him: until the floor of Heaven was "all o'erlaid with patines of bright gold," and the day, by that celestial sign, was ended. _Printed by Percy Lund, Humphries & Co., Ltd. Bradford and London._ End of Project Gutenberg's A Day with William Shakespeare, by Maurice Clare