Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.

He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.

But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.

The hideous god of war.

'Tis pride that pulls the country down.

Eternity was in our lips and eyes.

We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.