He Receives Comfort Like Cold

Why, Who Cries Out On Pride That Can Therein Tax Any Private Party? Doth It Not Flow As Hugely As The Sea Till The Weary Very Means Do Ebb?

Give Every Man Thine Ear, But Few Thy Voice; Take Each Man's Censure, But Reserve Thy Judgment.

O Most Delicate Fiend! Who Is't Can Read A Woman? Is There More?

I Pray You Bear Me Henceforth From The Noise And Rumour Of The Field, Where I May Think The Remnant Of My Thoughts In Peace, And Part Of This Body And My Soul With Contemplation And Devout Desires.

O How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes Favors! There Is Betwixt That Smile We Would Aspire To, That Sweet Aspect Of Princes, And Their Ruin, More Pangs And Fears Than Wars Or Women Have, And When He Falls, He Falls Like Lucifer, Never To Hope Again.