Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till

The Worm Is Not To Be Trusted.

Behold The Threaden Sails, Borne With The Invisible And Creeping Wind, Draw The Huge Bottoms Through The Furrow'd Sea, Breasting The Lofty Surge

Keep Up Your Bright Swords, For The Dew Will Rust Them.

Time Travels In Divers Paces With Divers Persons.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.