As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!
Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.
O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.
Despair and die. The ghosts