The Fates. Faith foolish as false!
Apol. But essay it, soft sisters!
Then mock as ye may. Lift the chalice to lip!
Good: thou next—and thou! Seems the web, to you twisters
Of life's yarn, so worthless?
Clo. Who guessed that one sip
Would impart such a lightness of limb?
Lach. I could skip
In a trice from the pied to the plain in my woof!