What Else May Hap, To

Fairest Cordelia, That Art Most Rich, Being Poor; Most Choice, Forsaken; And Most Loved, Despised! Thee And Thy Virtues Here I Seize Upon: Be It Lawful I Take Up What's Cast Away. Gods, Gods! 'tis Strange That From Their Cold'st Neglect My Love Should Kindle To Inflamed Respect. Thy Dowerless Daughter, King, Thrown To My Chance, Is Queen Of Us, Of Ours, And Our Fair France: Not All The Dukes Of Waterish Burgundy Can Buy This Unprized Precious Maid Of Me. Bid Them Farewell, Cordelia, Though Unkind: Thou Losest Here, A Better Where To Find.

Men Must Endure Their Going Hence, Even As Their Coming Hither. Ripeness Is All.

When I Have Seen By Time's Fell Hand Defaced The Rich Proud Cost Of Outworn Buried Age; When Sometime Lofty Towers I See Down-razed And Brass Eternal Slave To Mortal Rage; When I Have Seen The Hungry Ocean Gain Advantage On The Kingdom Of The Shore, And The Firm Soil Win Of The Watery Main, Increasing Store With Loss And Loss With Store; When I Have Seen Such Interchange Of State, Or State Itself Confounded To Decay; Ruin Hath Taught Me Thus To Ruminate, That Time Will Come And Take My Love Away. This Thought Is As A Death Which Cannot Choose But Weep To Have That Which It Fears To Lose.

So Musical A Discord, Such Sweet Thunder.

Thrust Your Head Into The Public Street, To Gaze On Christian Fools With Varnish'd Faces.