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- Glida: 1
- 2: It is the cry of women, my good Lord
- 1: What is that noise?
- Glida: 2
- I have almost forgot the taste of fears. The time has been, my senses would have cool’d To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
- Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir, As life were in’t.I have supp’d full with horrors: Direness, familar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me.Wherefore was that cry?
- Glida: 3
- The Queen, my Lord, is dead.
- She should have died hereafter: There would have been a time for such a word. 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 hard no more: it is a tale
- Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
- Glida: 0
- 3: I have almost forgot the taste of fears. The time has been, my senses would have cool’d. To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair.
- Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir, As life were in’t. I have supp’d full with horrors: Direness, familar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me
- Se should have died hereafter: There would have been a time for such a word. 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!
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