O, Clotho, what thought have you to weave such jests? No mortal thought toward you against! Thy nimble hands, they weave too quick, a braided thread, nay long nor thick.
Upon Lachesis, yon thread is passed, who keeps it in her lissome grasp. A long, long life, ordeals a'plenty, in thy mind's eye, distill wrath or envy.
Atropos, friend of Hades dear, Hag of ages, mortal's seer! A duty trusted unto thy blade Evanescent and fleeting we must remain.