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If he, compact of jars, grow musical, We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. (II.vii.5–6)
Who laid him down and basked him in the sun And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms, and yet a motley fool. (II.vii.15–17)
And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot, And thereby hangs a tale. (II.vii.26–28)