How Potent Is The Fancy! People Are

Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

Make A Virtue Of Necessity.

For Tyme Ylost May Nought Recovered Be.

Soun Is Noght But Air Ybroken, And Every Speche That Is Spoken, Loud Or Privee, Foul Or Fair, In His Substaunce Is But Air; For As Flaumbe Is But Lighted Smoke, Right So Soun Is Air Ybroke.