There Is Throats To Be Cut, And

The Cunning Livery Of Hell.

My Thoughts Are Whirled Like A Potter's Wheel; I Know Not Where I Am Nor What I Do.

The Seasons Change Their Manners, As The Year Had Found Some Months Asleep And Leapt Them Over.

If To Do Were As Easy As To Know What Were Good To Do, Chapels Had Been Churches, And Poor Men's Cottage Princes' Palaces.

What, Man, Defy The Devil. Consider, He's An Enemy To Mankind.