Like one who draws the model of a house beyond his power to build it who, half through, gives o'er, and leaves his part-created cost a naked subject to the weeping clouds.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

And too soon Marred are those so early Made.

One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.

He that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail.

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.