The soul was never put in the body to stand still.
The misery of us, that are born great, We are forced to woo because none dare woo us.
Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust, like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.
Vain the ambition of kings Who seek by trophies and dead things To leave a living name behind, And weave but nets to catch the wind.
Woman to man Is either a God or a wolfe.
That friend a great man's ruin strongly checks, who rails into his belief all his defects.