Old Time The Clock-setter.

But Now Behold, In The Quick Forge And Working-house Of Thought, How London Doth Pour Out Her Citizens!

I Stalk About Her Door, Like A Strange Soul Upon The Stygian Banks Staying For Waftage.

She Is A Woman, Therefore To Be Won.

All The Contagion Of The South Light On You, You Shames Of Rome! You Herd Of--boils And Plagues Plaster You O'er; That You May Be Abhorr'd Further Than Seen, And One Infect Another Against The Wind A Mile!

Murder Most Foul, As In The Best It It; But This Most Foul, Strange, And Unnatural.