Let No Such Man Be Trusted.

And Then He Drew A Dial From His Poke, And Looking With Lack-lustre Eye, Says Very Wisely, 'it Is Ten O'clock: Thus We May See', Quoth He, 'how The World Wags: 'tis But An Hour Ago Since It Was Nine, And After One Hour More 'twill Be Eleven; And So From Hour To Hour We Ripe And Ripe, And Then From Hour To Hour We Rot And Rot.

Out Of My Sight! Thou Dost Infect Mine Eyes.

He Knows What It's Like To Strut And Fret His Hour Upon The Stage And Then Be Heard No More.

So Full Of Artless Jealousy Is Guilt, It Spills Itself In Fearing To Be Spilt.

Each Present Joy Or Sorrow Seems The Chief.