Sooner will always be later
Waiting and wishing for time to run
Thinking that it gets closer with every passing breath.
The tapping of the fingers and the pounding of the heart. ...
Hence vain deluding joyes,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes;
Dwell in som idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,
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