Every fair from fair sometime declines

Make not your thoughts your prisons.

My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

When devils will the blackest sins put on They do suggest at first with heavenly shows

There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.

My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.