Nothing can seem foul to those who win.
Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness.
With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out
When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand.
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My gay apparel for an almsman's gown, My figured goblets for a dish of wood, My scepter for a palmer's walking staff My subjects for a pair of carved saints and my large kingdom for a little grave.
My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.