And new philosophy calls all in doubt, The element of fire is quite put out; The sun is lost, and the earth, and no man's wit Can well direct him where to look for it. And freely men confess that this world's spent, When in the planets, and the firmament They seek so many new; then see that this Is crumbled out again to his atomies. 'Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone; All just supply, and all relation: Prince, subject, Father, Son, are things forgot.

Good is not good, unless A thousand it possess, But doth waste with greediness.

I did best when I had least truth for my subjects.

I have done one braver thing than all the Worthies did, and yet a braver thence doth spring, which is, to keep that hid.

Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.

And when a whirl-winde hath blowne the dust of the Churchyard into the Church, and man sweeps out the dust of the Church into the Church-yard, who will undertake to sift those dusts again, and to pronounce, This is the Patrician, this is the noble flower, and this the yeomanly, this the Plebian bran.

Doth not a man die even in his birth? The breaking of prison is death, and what is our birth, but a breaking of prison?