Lord, Lord, How This World

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem By That Sweet Ornament Which Truth Doth Give!

If Little Faults Proceeding On Distemper Shall Not Be Winked At, How Shall We Stretch Our Eye When Capital Crimes, Chewed, Swallowed, And Digested, Appear Before Us?

How Sharper Than A Serpent's Tooth It Is To Have A Thankless Child!

My Cake Is Dough, But I'll In Among The Rest, Out Of Hope Of All But My Share Of The Feast.