There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done.
The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.
The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.