Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.
However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.
Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.
Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.
Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.