Hanging was the worst use a man could be put to

Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.

I am but a gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff.

How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

Who God doth late and early pray, More of his grace than gifts to send, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend.

You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light; You common people of the skies, What are you when the sun shall rise?

Love lodged in a woman's breast Is but a guest.