As soon as there was two there was pride.
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
God himself took a day to rest in, and a good man's grave is his Sabbath.
My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.