In maiden meditation, fancy free.

Conscience is a thousand swords.

My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.

Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.

Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful.

O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .