Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess
Alas, our frailty is the cause , not we! For, such as we are made of, such we be.
Out of this nettle - danger - we pluck this flower - safety.
Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind.