The World Is Grown So Bad, That

O Heresy In Fair, Fit For These Days, A Giving Hand, Though Foul, Shall Have Fair Praise.

When That Churl Death My Bones With Dust Shall Cover.

For It Falls Out That What We Have We Prize Not To The Worth Whiles We Enjoy It, But Being Lacked And Lost, Why, Then We Rack The Value, Then We Find The Virtue That Possession Would Not Show Us While It Was Ours.

If Ever Thou Be'st Bound In Thy Scarf And Beaten, Thou Shalt Find What It Is To Be Proud Of Thy Bondage.

I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.