“ ‘ ’Tis time my hard mouth’d coursers to control, Apt to run riot, and transgress the goal; And therefore I conclude, whatever lies In earth, or flits in air, or fills the skies, All suffer change; and we that are of soul And body mix’d, are members of the whole: Then when our sires or grandsires shall forsake The forms of men, and brutal figures take, Thus housed, securely let their spirits rest, Nor violate thy father in the beast, Thy friend, thy brother, any of thy kin; If none of these, yet there’s a man within: Oh spare to make a Thyestaean meal, To enclose his body, and his soul expel.