(Dramatic Classical Music) Wherefore was that cry?

The queen, my lord, is dead.

(Dissonant Drone) She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time.

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.

(Dramatic Classical Music) Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp?

Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court?

Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference; as the icy fang And churlish chiding of And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, the winter's wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say 'This is no flattery; these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.'

Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

(Dramatic Classical Music) I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world: And for because the world is populous And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out.

My brain I'll prove the female to my soul, My soul the father; and these two beget A generation of still-breeding thoughts, And these same thoughts people this little world, In humours like the people of this world, For no thought is contented.

The better sort, As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd With scruples and do set the word itself against the word: As thus, 'Come, little ones,' and then again, 'It is as hard to come as for a camel To thread the postern of a small needle's eye.'

Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails May tear a passage through the flinty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls, And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.

Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves That they are not the first of fortune's slaves, Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame, That many have and others must sit there; And in this thought they find a kind of ease, Bearing their own misfortunes on the back Of such as have before endured the like.

Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented: sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am: then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I king'd again: and by and by Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing: but whate'er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased With being nothing.

(Classical Guitar Music) Music do I hear?

Ha, ha!

keep time: how sour sweet music is, When time is broke and no proportion kept!

So is it in the music of men's lives.

And here have I the daintiness of ear To hear time broke in a disorder'd string; But for the concord of my state and time Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; This music mads me; let it sound no more; For though it have holp madmen to their wits, In me it seems it will make wise men mad.

Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!

For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

(Dramatic Classical Music) I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself.

I was born free as Caesar; so were you: We both have fed as well, and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me 'Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point?'

Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in And bade him follow; so indeed he did.

The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy; But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried 'Help me, Cassius, or I sink!'

I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar.

And this man Is now become a god, and Cassius is A wretched creature and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake; His coward lips did from their colour fly, And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried 'Give me some drink, Titinius,' As a sick girl.

Ye gods, it doth amaze me A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world And bear the palm alone.

(Dramatic Classical Music) Farewell!

a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do.

I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new open'd.

O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.

Why how now, Cromwell?

I know myself now, and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience.

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, say I taught thee.

Say Wolsey that once trod the ways of glory And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, Found thee a way out of his wrack to rise in, A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!

Love thyself last, cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To silence envious tongues.

Be just, and fear not.

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's.

Thy God's, and truth's.

Oh Cromwell, Cromwell Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my King, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.

(Dramatic Classical Music) Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth By my so potent art.

But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book.

(Dramatic Classical Music)