Swift As Shadow, Short As Any Dream

O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You Thief Of Love!

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

When You Depart From Me Sorrow Abides And Happiness Takes His Leave.

The Happiest Youth, Viewing His Progress Through, What Perils Past, What Crosses To Ensue, Would Shut The Book, And Sit Him Down And Die.

Cannot You Tell That? Every Fool Can Tell That. It Was The Very Day That Young Hamlet Was Born, He That Is Mad And Sent Into England." "ay, Marry, Why Was He Sent Into England?" "why, Because He Was Mad. He Shall Recover His Wits There, Or, If He Do Not, It's No Great Matter There." "why?" "'twill Not Be Seen In Him There. There The Men Are As Mad As He.