Though It Make The Unskillful Laugh, Cannot

O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes' Favors.

For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

Plain And Not Honest Is Too Harsh A Style.

I Do Begin To Have Bloody Thoughts.

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore, So Do Our Minutes Hasten To Their End; Each Changing Place With That Which Goes Before, In Sequent Toil All Forwards Do Contend.