The misery of us, that are born great, We are forced to woo because none dare woo us.
Lust carries her sharp whip At her own girdle.
Though lust do masque in ne'er so strange disguise she's oft found witty, but is never wise.
How tedious is a guilty conscience!
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.
Lay this unto your breast: Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.