There's Some Ill Planet Reigns:

He Uses His Folly Like A Stalking-horse, And Under The Presentation Of That He Shoots His Wit.

Who Riseth From A Feast With That Keen Appetite That He Sits Down?

The Fortune Of Us That Are The Moon's Men Doth Ebb And Flow Like The Sea, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By The Moon.

If We Shadows Have Offended, Think But This, And All Is Mended, That You Have But Slumber'd Here While These Visions Did Appear.

Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feelings As To Sight?