Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
Gold--what can it not do, and undo?
All the world is a stage and we are merely players.
Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.