Oh What Fools We Mortals Are.

Here Will Be An Old Abusing Of God's Patience And The King's English.

The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety Secure.

One Whom The Music Of His Own Vain Tongue Doth Ravish Like Enchanting Harmony.

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If Ever, Now.