My final words this solemn evening of our doom.

I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

 

No fear Shaky is here.

 

Well said, what’s it mean though

 

Get Rammell on.

 

The Bard, obviously, Bill Wobbledagger. A genius.

 

Not quite yer final words this evening JP.

 

If all the world's a stage,
What's happened to the ****ing players?

 

As I have posted as tobyornttoby before - "there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so"

Think it's good and it so will be.

(how you manage that with our displays at present, I shall need to look deeper to fathom and get back to you, probably from div 1).

 

Let me explain:

The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway.
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God Himself;
The devine Ronald Glavin.

 

Or as another Bill said...

Come with me to the fire festival
Let us burn each other blind
Let us dance, let us dance away
Dance till the end of time.

Come with me to the islands of the dead
To the soul house, to the fire-house
To smoke and ash of laughter in your head
Sweet laughter, here after
Ever after, in the islands of the dead.

Pack up all your mortal memories
Cloak your soul in sleep
The moon is in the window
And the wind is in the trees
These things are yours to keep.

Oh, come with me to the islands of the dead
Let us sail, sail, sail, sail away
To smoke and ash of laughter in your head
Sweet laughter, here after
Ever after, in the islands of the dead.

 

Withnail

 

Or

 

In the words of Lady Macbeth:
Out damn schopp!