It Is Certain That Either Wise Bearing

Can We Outrun The Heavens?

Like One Who Having Into Truth, By Telling Of It, Made Such A Sinner Of His Memory, To Credit His Own Lie.

All The World's A Stage.

And Too Soon Marred Are Those So Early Made.

To Bed, To Bed; Sleep Kill Those Pretty Eyes, And Give As Soft Attachment To Thy Senses, As Infants Empty Of All Thought.