This Is The Third Time; I Hope

By That Sin Fell The Angels.

But Thought's The Slave Of Life, And Life Time's Fool.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

This Fellow Pecks Up Wit, As Pigeons Peas; And Utters It Again When God Doth Please: He Is Wit's Pedler; And Retails His Wares.

That Truth Should Be Silent I Had Almost Forgot. (enobarbus)