How my achievements mock me!

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

To some kind of men their graces serve them but as enemies.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences.

Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.

Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition