Of all the tyrants that the world affords

What thing so good which not some harm may bring? Even to be happy is a dangerous thing.

The weaker sex, to piety more prone

Death is the port where all may refuge find, The end of labour, entry unto rest.

What life refused, to gain by death he thought: For life and death are but indifferent things, And of themselves not to be shunned nor sought, But for the good or ill that either brings.

O if thou knew’st how thou thyself dost harm, And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest; Then thou would’st melt the ice out of thy breast And thy relenting heart would kindly warm. L. E. Kastner & H. B. Charlton, eds., The Poetical …

Although my hap be hard, my heart is high.