You see here before you the spectacle of a Plantagenet, who hath been carried from the nursery to the sanctuary; from the sanctuary to the direful prison; from the prison to the hand of the cruel tormentor; and from that hand to the wide wilderness, as I may truly call it, for so the world hath been to me.

We have the sanctuary back. But our nursery and bookstore are still set up as sleeping areas.

Habit is the nursery of errors.

Ring around the rosie.
A pocket full of posie.
Ashes ashes, we all fall down.
Some people say that this poem is about the Black Death, the fourteenth-century plague that killed 100-million people...
Sadly, though, most experts think this is nonsense...
How can I be so sure about this rhyme when all the experts disagree?
Because I ate the kid who made it up.

Experience teaches us that the world is not a nursery.

It's just like a nursery game of make-believe.