For what made that in glory shine so long But poets' Pens, pluckt from Archangels' wings?
Wit,--the pupil of the soul's clear eye.
Thou art true and honest as a dog.
Deeds are males, words females are.
What more than madness reigns, when one short sitting many hundreds drains.
I know my soul hath power to know all things, Yet is she blind and ignorant in all: I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.