The Insolence Of Office.

The Clock Upbraids Me With The Waste Of Time.

He That Dies This Year Is Quit For The Next.

Every Fair From Fair Sometime Declines

I Am Thy Father's Spirit; Doom'd For A Certain Term To Walk The Night And, For The Day, Confin'd To Fast In Fires, Till The Foul Crimes, Done In My Days Of Nature, Are Burnt And Purg'd Away.

Lawless Are They That Make Their Wills Their Law.