ain the fury of his gullet and groin, and think how
many fires, how many kitchens, cooks, pastures, and ploughed lands; what
orchards, stews, ponds and parks, coops and garners, he could spare;
what velvets, tissues, embroideries, laces, he could lack; and then how
short and uncertain his life is; he were in a better way to happiness
than to live the emperor of these delights, and be the dictator of
fashions. But we make ourselves slaves to our pleasures, and we serve
fame and ambition, which is an equal slavery.

[Sidenote: _Ben Johnson_]

I remember the players have often mentioned it as an honour to
Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted
out a line. My answer hath been, "Would he had blotted out a thousand,"
which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told posterity this
but for their ignorance who chose that circumstance to commend their
friend by wherein he most faulted; and to justify mine own candour, for
I loved the man, and do honour his memory on this side idolatry as much
as any. He was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free nature; had an
excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he
flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary he should be
stopped. "Sufflaminandus erat," as Augustus said of Haterius. His wit
was in his own power; would the rule of it had been so, too! Many times
he fell into those things could not escape laughter, as when he said in
the person of Caesar, one speaking to him, "Caesar, thou dost me wrong."
He replied, "Caesar did never wrong but with just cause"; and such-like,
which were ridiculous. But he redeemed his vices with his virtues. There
was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned.

[Sidenote: _Ben Johnson_]

Wisdom without honesty is mere craft and cozenage. And therefore the
reputation of honesty must first be gotten; which cannot be but by
living well. A good life is a main argument.

MOTHERHOOD
[Sidenote: _Calverley_]

She laid it where the sunbeams fall
Unscann'd upon the broken wall,
Without a tear, without a groan,
She laid it near a mighty stone
Which some rude swain had haply cast
Thither in sport, long ages past,
And Time with mosses had o'erlaid,
And fenced with many a tall grass-blade,
And all about bid roses bloom
And violets shed their soft perfume.
There, in its cool and quiet bed,
She set her burden down and fled:
Nor flung, all