Confusion Now Hath Made His Masterpiece.

Or Are You Like The Painting Of A Sorrow, A Face Without A Heart?

Be Checked For Silence, But Never Taxed For Speech.

But Clay And Clay Differs In Dignity, Whose Dust Is Both Alike.

Tush! Fear Not, My Lord, We Will Not Stand To Prate; Talkers Are No Good Doers: Be Assured We Come To Use Our Hands And Not Our Tongues.

Unless Hours Were Cups Of Sack, And Minutes Capons, And Clocks The Tongues Of Bawds, And Dials The Signs Of Leaping-houses, And The Blessed Sun Himself A Fair Hot Wench In Flame-colored Taffeta, I See No Reason Why Thou Shouldst Be So Superfluous To Demand The Time Of The Day.