Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty To make thy riches pleasant!"_ * * * * * _"O, I do fear thy courage, Claudio; and I quake Lest thou a feverous life should'st entertain, And six or seven winters more respect Than a perpetual honor. Dar'st thou die? The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies! Ay, Isabella, 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 pendant world; or to be worse than worst Of those, that lawless and uncertain thoughts Imagine howling! 'Tis too horrible! The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury and imprisonment Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death!"_ King Henry the Fourth, on his deathbed thus bitterly rebukes Prince Hal for his heartless haste in taking the crown before the last breath leaves his father: _"Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought; I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair, That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine honors Before thy hour be ripe? O, foolish youth! Thou seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity Is held from falling with so weak a mind That it will quickly drop; my day is dim. Thou hast stolen that, which after some few hours, Were thine without offense; and at my death, Thou hast sealed up my expectation; Thou life did manifest, thou lov'st me not, And thou wilt have me die assured of it. Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts; Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, To stab at half an hour of my life. What! can'st thou not forbear me half an hour? Then get thee gone; and dig my grave thyself; And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear; That thou art crowned, not that I am dead, Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse Be drops of balm, to sanctify thy head; Only compound me with begotten dust; Give that which gave thee life, unto the worms; Pluck down my officers, break my decrees; For now a time is come to mock at form. Harry the Fifth is crowned; up, vanity! Down royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence! And to the English Court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness! Now, neighbor confines, purge you of your scum; Have you a ruffian, that will swear, drink, dance,