A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

My love is as a fever, longing still.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run.

I am a true laborer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness, glad of other men's good, content with my harm.