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.

O my good lord,
At many times I brought in my accounts,
Laid them before you; you would throw them off,
And say, you found them in mine honesty.
When, for some trifling present, you have bid me
Return so much, I have shook my head and wept;
Yea, ’gainst the authority of manners, pray’d you
To hold your hand more close: I did endure
Not seldom, nor no slight cheques, when I have
Prompted you in the ebb of your estate
And your great flow of debts. My loved lord,
Though you hear now, too late—yet now’s a time—

On the short Nows God sends,
My everlasting state depends;
And should I but this Now
To cultivate my soul allow,
Short as it is, ’twould me prepare
To be of bliss eternal heir.

I oft made solemn vows
To consecrate to God my Nows;
This Now, I would begin,
But worldly thoughts keep rushing in;
Then I the next, and next designed,
When the next came, I change my mine.

I by experience found
The more I to the world gave ground,
The less my soul would heed
The Nows God for my good decreed;
When sin was up to habit wrought,