You Blocks, You Stones, You Worse Than

What: Is The Jay More Precious Than The Lark Because His Feathers Are More Beautiful?

Base Is The Slave That Pays.

Let The Doors Be Shut Upon Him, That He May Play The Fool No Where But In's Own House.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.

For 'tis The Sport To Have The Engineerhoist With His Own Petard.