True Apothecary Thy Drugs Art Quick

Nature Does Require Her Times Of Preservation.

How Every Fool Can Play Upon The Word!

If Thou Dost Love, Proclaim It Faithfully.

And So, From Hour To Hour, We Ripe And Ripe. And Then, From Hour To Hour, We Rot And Rot; And Thereby Hangs A Tale.

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .