Men at some time are masters of their fates.
You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.
She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
O for a horse with wings!
I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.