When We Are Born We Cry That

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

Hot Lavender, Mints, Savory, Marjoram; The Marigold, That Goes To Bed Wi' The Sun, And With Him Rise Weeping.

The Time Of Life Is Short; To Spend That Shortness Basely Were Too Long.

One Sees More Devils Than Vast Hell Can Hold

I Have Not Slept. Between The Acting Of A Dreadful Thing And The First Motion, All The Interim Is Like A Phantasma, Or A Hideous Dream: The Genius And The Mortal Instruments Are Then In Council; And The State Of Man, Like To A Little Kingdom, Suffers Then The Nature Of An Insurrection.