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What is our life? a play of passion; Our mirth the music of division;...
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Our graves that hide us from the searching sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done....
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Even such is Time, which takes in trust Our youth, our joys, and all we have,...
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Hatreds are the cinders of affection.
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All, or the greatest part of men that have aspired to riches or power, have attained thereunto either by force or fraud, and what they have by craft or cruelty gained, to cover the foulness of their fact, they call purchase, as a name more honest. Howsoever, he that for want of will or wit useth not those means, must rest in servitude and poverty.
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