The Labor We Delight In Physics [cures]

Abandon All Remorse; On Horror's Head Horrors Accumulate.

Come Now, What Masques, What Dances Shall We Have To Wear Away This Long Age Of Three Hours Between Our After-supper And Bedtime?

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.

Mine Eyes Are Full Of Tears, My Heart Of Grief.

There Should Be Hours For Necessities, Not For Delights; Times To Repair Our Nature With Comforting Repose, And Not For Us To Waste These Times.