To Fear The Worst Oft Cures The

Fortune Is Painted Blind, With A Muffler Afore Her Eyes, To Signify To You That Fortune Is Blind.

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves; The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament.

So Full Of Artless Jealousy Is Guilt, It Spills Itself In Fearing To Be Spilt.

What's Done Is Done. The Joy Is In The Doing.

And Nothing Can We Call Our Own But Death And That Small Model Of The Barren Earth Which Serves As Paste And Cover To Our Bones. For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings.