The sun is still ripening behind the rock.
I dare not go near the foundation grown with copper red grass. Deep in its bosom lies boggles of drunk whisky and wafer wrappers. I therefore sit behind the rag waving tree.
A fool, a motley fool, I recall , on whom the Lady Fortune has not smiled yet..
That was what I read at dawn, coming back to a bald and barded Shakespeare.
A motley fool, not a natural one.
A natural is a favorite one for Lady Fortune to smile upon. A motley one is a salaried wise-cracker.
One who is wise and not cracked enough.
Be fortunate to be a natural.