O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect The thoughts of others!
O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.
Shine out fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass.
Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears.