There's such divinity doth hedge a king. That treason doth but peep to what it would.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
This is an art Which does mend nature - change it rather; but The art itself is nature.
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