When shall we meet again,
In thunder, lightening or in rain?
When the hurlyburly's done?
When the battle's lost and won?
No, that will be eve the set of sun.
Doubtful he stood,
smoked with bloody execution;
He shall live a man forbid,
imperfect,
and look not like inhabitants o' the earth.
For he has eaten the insane root
that takes the reason prisoner.
This strange intelligence,
supernatural soliciting,
cannot be ill; cannot be good.
As nothing is but what is not.
Truths are told to the
self-same tune and words.
So why do you start
and seem to fear,
things that do sound so fair?
If you can look into the seeds of time,
that oftentimes win us to our harm,
the instrument of darkness shall betray us.
He can report of the revolt;
he has more than mortal knowledge.
Discomfort swells his lavish spirit
and carved out his passage.
What he hath lost, another hath won,
it unseam'd him and choked their art,
For fair is foul, and foul is fair.
