The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy

And Then He Drew A Dial From His Poke, And Looking With Lack-lustre Eye, Says Very Wisely, 'it Is Ten O'clock: Thus We May See', Quoth He, 'how The World Wags: 'tis But An Hour Ago Since It Was Nine, And After One Hour More 'twill Be Eleven; And So From Hour To Hour We Ripe And Ripe, And Then From Hour To Hour We Rot And Rot.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.

To Be Merry Best Becomes You; For, Out Of Question, You Were Born In A Merry Hour.

Dissembling Harlot, Thou Art False In All!