William Shakespeare

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,
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I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,
And from the organ-pipe of fraity sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest.

O, what may man within him hide,
Though angel on the outward side!

O, what may man within him hide,
Though angel on the outward side!

Master, master, old news! And such news as you never heard of!

Master, master, old news! And such news as you never heard of!

All furnished, all in arms;
All plum'd like estridges that with the wind
Bated like eagles having read more

All furnished, all in arms;
All plum'd like estridges that with the wind
Bated like eagles having lately bathed;
Glittering in golden coats like images;
As full of spirit as the month of May
And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.

But man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,--
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
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But man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,--
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep.