After this banquet my soul doth say grace, And praise thee for it, and zealously embrace Thy love, though I think thy love in this case To be as gluttons, which say 'midst their meat, They love that best of which they most do eat. To Sir Henry Wotton. But I should wither in one day, and pass To a bottle of hay, that am a lock of grass. And Courts are theatres, where some men play Princes, some slaves, all to one end, and of one clay. And mingled thus, their issue incestuous.
Falsehood is denizened.
Virtue is barbarous. Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive. They would like strangers greet themselves, seeing then Utopian youth, grown old Italian. Inn anywhere, continuance maketh hell. Whom, free from German schisms, and lightness Of France, and fair Italy's faithlessness, Having from these sucked all they had of worth, And brought home that faith, which you carried forth, I throughly love.