Oh What Fools We Mortals Are.

Fortune Reigns In Gifts Of The World.

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

All Things That We Ordained Festival Turn From Their Office To Black Funeral-- Our Instruments To Melancholy Bells, Our Wedding Cheer To A Sad Burial Feast; Our Solemn Hymns To Sullen Dirges Change; Our Bridal Flowers Serve For A Buried Corse; And All Things Change Them To The Contrary.

He Does It With Better Grace, But I Do It More Natural.

New Customs, Though They Be Never So Ridiculous (nay, Let Em Be Unmanly), Yet Are Followed.