Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

I Begin To Find An Idle And Fond Bondage In The Oppression Of Aged Tyranny, Who Sways, Not As It Hath Power, But As It Is Suffered.

The Fortune Of Us That Are The Moon's Men Doth Ebb And Flow Like The Sea, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By The Moon.

That We Would Do We Should Do When We Would, For This 'would' Changes, And Hath Abatements And Delays As Many As There Are Tongues, Are Hands, Are Accidents, And Then This 'should' Is Like A Spendthrift Sigh, That Hurts By Easing.

I Will Despair, And Be At Enmity With Cozening Hope.

To Have Seen Much And To Have Nothing Is To Have Rich Eyes And Poor Hands.