My hope and treasure lies above
That when we live no more, We may live ever
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn.
To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings/Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun/For my mean Pen are too superior things.
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, I here, though there, yet both but one.
If we had not winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.