Woe To That Land That's Governed By

They Are Fairies; He That Speaks To Them Shall Die. I'll Wink And Couch; No Man Their Works Must Eye.

Beauty's A Doubtful Good, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour; And Beauty, Blemish'd Once, For Ever's Lost, In Spite Of Physic, Painting, Pain, And Cost.

Heaven Is Above All Yet; There Sits A Judge, That No King Can Corrupt.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

Canst Thou, O Partial Sleep, Give Thy Repose To The Wet Sea-boy In An Hour So Rude, And In The Calmest And Most Stillest Night, With All Appliances And Means To Boot, Deny It To A King?