O Braggart Vile And Damned Furious Wight!

Prepare For Mirth, For Mirth Becomes A Feast.

What Win I, If I Gain The Thing I Seek? A Dream, A Breath, A Froth Of Fleeting Joy. Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sells Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Sweet Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy? Or What Fond Beggar, But To Touch The Crown, Would With The Sceptre Straight Be Strucken Down?

No Beast So Fierce But Knows Some Touch Of Pity. But I Know None, And Therefore Am No Beast.

How Strange Or Odd Some'er I Bear Myself, As I Perchance Hereafter Shall Think Meet To Put An Antic Disposition On.

The Sweets We Wish For, Turn To Loathed Sours, Even In The Moment That We Call Them Ours.