They first condemn that first advised the ill.
Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
All things are subject to decay and when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he.
Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.