Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men

Sin, That Amends, Is But Patched With Virtue.

His Jest Will Savour But Of Shallow Wit, When Thousands Weep, More Than Did Laugh At It.

And Fearless Minds Climb Soonest Unto Crowns.

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!

Can One Desire Too Much Of A Good Thing?