The Web Of Our Life Is Of

The Seasons Change Their Manners, As The Year Had Found Some Months Asleep And Leapt Them Over.

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Of Anger Constant Spirit, Not Swerving With The Blood, Garnish'd And Deck'd In Modest Compliment, Not Working With The Eye Without The Ear, And But In Purged Judgement Trusting Neither? Such And So Finely Bolted Didst Thou Seem.

I Hold The World But As The World, Gratiano; A Stage Where Every Man Must Play A Part, And Mine Is A Sad One.

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me.

Bloody Instructions, Which, Being Taught, Return To Plague The Inventor.