Come The Three Corners Of The World

Promising Is The Very Air O' The Time; It Opens The Eyes Of Expectation.

Though Fortune's Malice Overthrow My State, My Mind Exceeds The Compass Of Her Wheel.

Thou Art All The Comfort, The Gods Will Diet Me With.

O, My Lord, You Said That Idle Weeds Are Fast In Growth: The Prince My Brother Hath Outgrown Me Far.

I Can Give The Loser Leave To Chide.