Day's god deposes you—queens Night-crowned!
—Plying your trade in a world ye encumber,
Fashioning Man's web of life—spun, wound,
Left the length ye allot till a clip strews the ground!
Behold I bid truce to your doleful amusement—
Annulled by a sunbeam!
The Fates. Boy, are not we peers?
Apol. You with the spindle grant birth: whose inducement
But yours—with the niggardly digits—endears
To mankind chance and change, good and evil? Your shears ...