Thus Hath The Candle Sing'd

May Never Glorious Sun Reflex His Beams Upon The Country Where You Make Abode! But Darkness And The Gloomy Shade Of Death Environ You Till Mischief And Despair Drive You To Break Your Necks Or Hang Yourselves.

Extremity Is The Trier Of Spirits.

Right Joyous Are We To Behold Your Face, Most Worthy Brother England; Fairly Met!

For I Am He Am Born To Tame You, Kate; And Bring You From A Wild Kate To A Kate Conformable As Other Household Kates.

Ay, But To Die And Go We Know Not Where; To Lie In Cold Obstrution And To Rot; This Sensible Warm Motion To Become A Kneaded Clod; And The Delighted Spirit To Bathe In Fiery Floods Or To Reside In Thrilling Regions Of Thick-ribbed Ice; To Be Imprison'd In The Viewless Winds, And Blown With Restless Violence Round About The Pendant World.