We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
When the age is in, the wit is out
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly followed.
That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
The will is infinite and the execution confin'd, the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.