The Time Is Out Of Joint.

Was Ever Woman In This Humour Wooed? Was Ever Woman In This Humour Won?

The Sweets We Wish For, Turn To Loathed Sours, Even In The Moment That We Call Them Ours.

Merciful Heaven, Thou Rather With Thy Sharp And Sulphurous Bolt Splits The Unwedgeable And Gnarled Oak Than The Soft Myrtle; But Man, Proud Man, Dressed In A Little Brief Authority, Most Ignorant Of What He's Most Assured His Glassy Essence--like An Angry Ape Plays Such Fantastic Tricks Before High Heaven As Makes The Angels Weep; Who, With Our Spleens, Would All Themselves Laugh Mortal.

O Horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue Nor Heart Cannot Conceive Nor Name Thee!

Yon Grey Lines That Fret The Clouds Are Messengers Of Day.