So. Lie There, My Art.

What Must Be Shall Be.

For There's No Motion That Tends To Vice In Man, But I Affirm It Is The Woman's Part.

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore, So Do Our Minutes Hasten To Their End; Each Changing Place With That Which Goes Before, In Sequent Toil All Forwards Do Contend.

O Gentlemen, The Time Of Life Is Short! To Spend That Shortness Basely Were Too Long, If Life Did Ride Upon A Dial's Point, Still Ending At The Arrival Of An Hour.

Time Is The Old Justice That Examines All Such Offenders, And Let Time Try.