"As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion. | _He_ bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns; | and, as thou sayest, charged my brother on his blessing | to breed me well; and there begins my sadness. | My brother Jacques he keeps at school, and report | speaks goldenly of his profit; for my part he keeps me | rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, | stays me here at home unkept; for call you that keeping | for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling | of an ox? His horses are bred better; for besides that | they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, | and to that end riders dearly hired; but I, his brother,| gain nothing under him but growth, for the which | his animals on his dunghills are as much | bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he | so plentifully gives me, the something that Nature gave me | his countenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed | with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as | in him lies mines my gentility with my education. | This it is, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, | which I think is within me, begins to mutiny | against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, | though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it."--As You Like It, i. 1. "I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation | prevent your discovery, and your secresy | to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late |--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, | foregone all custom of exercises, and indeed | it goes so heavily with my disposition, | that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile | promontory, this most excellent canopy, | the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, | this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire, | why, it appeareth nothing to me but | a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. | What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! | how infinite in faculties! in form and moving | how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! | in apprehension how like a god! | the beauty of the world! the paragon | of animals! And yet to me what is | this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; | no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so."--Hamlet, ii. 2.