My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass, Wherein th imaginations run to sands, Filling up time; but there are turnd and turnd So that I know not what to say upon, And less to put in act.
Good men, like the sea, should still maintain Their noble tastes in midst of all fresh humours, That flow about them, to corrupt their streams, Bearing no season, much less salt of goodness.
Bring all wits to the Rack, whose Noses are euer like Swine spoyling and rooting vp the Muses Gardens, and their whole Bodies like Moles, as blindly working vnder Earth to cast any, the least, hilles vpon Vertue.