Why, Thou Owest God A

Present Mirth Hath Present Laughter. What's To Come Is Still Unsure.

The Breach Of Custom Is Breach Of All.

There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings.

A Cup Of Hot Wine With Not A Drop Of Allaying Tiber In 't.

And So, From Hour To Hour, We Ripe And Ripe. And Then, From Hour To Hour, We Rot And Rot; And Thereby Hangs A Tale.