Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men.
And nature must obey necessity.
Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.
Tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons.
Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.