The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
To some kind of men their graces serve them but as enemies.
Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.
Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.
Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.