Some Rise By Sin, And Some By

There's A Time For All Things.

The Time Is Out Of Joint.

Taste Your Legs, Sire: Put Them Into Motion.

Though Fortune's Malice Overthrow My State, My Mind Exceeds The Compass Of Her Wheel.

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.