Against Ill Chances Men Are Ever Merry,

I, Thus Neglecting Worldly Ends, All Dedicated To Closeness And The Bettering Of My Mind.

Unless The Old Adage Must Be Verified, That Beggars Mounted, Run Their Horse To Death.

The Bird That Hath Been Limed In A Bush, With Trembling Wings Misdoubteth Every Bush.

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

For Trust Not Him That Hath Once Broken Faith