Let Those That Play Your Clowns Speak

Canst Thou, O Partial Sleep, Give Thy Repose To The Wet Sea-boy In An Hour So Rude, And In The Calmest And Most Stillest Night, With All Appliances And Means To Boot, Deny It To A King?

He That Keeps Not Crust Nor Crum Weary Of All, Shall Want Some.

You Are Not Wood, You Are Not Stones, But Men.

Cease Thy Counsel, For Thy Words Fall Into My Ears As Priceless As Water Into A Seive.

Come, Seeling Night, Scarf Up The Tender Eye Of Pitiful Day, And With Thy Bloody And Invisible Hand Cancel And Tear To Pieces That Great Bond Which Keeps Me Pale. Light Thickens, And The Crow Makes Wing To Th' Rooky Wood. Good Things Of Day Begin To Droop And Drowse, While Night's Black Agents To Their Prey Do Rouse.