Nought's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content. Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence, Both thanks and use. No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, - New honours, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould, But with the aid of use. New-made honour doth forget men's names. Nature craves All dues be rendered to their owners. Nature, as it grows again toward earth, Is fashion'd for the journey, dull, and heavy. Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy. Nature must obey necessity. Never anger Made good guard for itself. Notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and fanes that lie. No visor does become black villany Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness. Nature, crescent, does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but, as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Nothing almost sees miracles but misery. Nought so vile that on the earth doth live use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit. 3 Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, Our natures do pursue (Like rats that ravin down their proper bane) A thirsty evil; and when we drink, we die. Ourselves we do not owe :* What is decreed, must be. O place! O form! How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, Outward courtesies would fain proclaim * Owe, own. |