Our bruised arms hung
up for monuments.
Our stern alarums changed
to merry meetings.
He capers nimbly in
a lady's chamber
to the lascivious
pleasing of a lute.
Well, now, Larding.
_________________________________________
'Tis a consummation
devoutly to be wish'd.
To die.
To sleep.
To sleep.
Perchance to dream.
Ay, there's the rub.
For in that sleep of death
what dreams may come
when we have shuffled
off this mortal coil,
must give us pause.
Butchers!
