Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but mutability!
How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery!
This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it shall not.
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a mutable substance
Love is the world’s infinite mutability; lies, hatred, murder even, are all knit up in it; it is the inevitable blossoming of its opposites, a magnificent rose smelling faintly of blood. —Tony Kushner, THE ILLUSION