The supple ripeness of Shakespeare invites licence.
Fraud alone is certainty here.
Nature is a sign which, if not mute, denies itself. So he made up his mind to admit the jinn and exclude the apparently unrevealed mysteries, and caught between himself and himself to plead for the abyss. It doesn't matter whether what we heard was the sucked saliva running from sleeping crickets' mouths, builders of midnight bridges, creators who made themselves double tombs, or phantoms whose wages is prophecy. And it is true that in his presence the knife raised above a sheep would not cut and the melted pewter of old baptismal fonts returned to its primal form. He got in the way of eternity and had to heal the wound.