is big, manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound; Last scene of all
That ends this strange, eventful history
In second childishness, and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything!"_

In "Measure for Measure" the brave Duke, the pure Isabella and cowardly
Claudio discourse thus on death:

_"Be absolute for death; either death or life,
Shall thereby be sweeter. Reason thus with life,--
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
But none but fools would keep; a breath thou art,
(Servile to all the skiey influences)
That dost this habitation, where thou keepest,
Hourly afflict; merely, thou art death's fool;
For him thou laborest by thy flight to shun,
And yet run'st toward him still; Thou art not noble;
For all the accommodations that thou bear'st
Are nursed by baseness: 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. Thou art not thyself;
For thou exist'st on many thousand grains
That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast forgett'st; Thou art not certain
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
After the moon. If thou art rich, thou art poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And Death unloads thee! Friend hast thou none;
For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the gout, leprosy, and the rheum
For ending thee no sooner; Thou hast nor youth, nor age,
But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both; For all thy blessed youth
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