Not so: we write from the full heart within,
And leave posterity to find her own.
Health, sir!—your good deeds laurel you in heaven.
Middleton.
'Twere best men left their fame to chance and fashion,
As birds bequeath their eggs to the sun's hatching,
Since Genius can make no will.
Marlowe.
Troth, can it!
But for the consequences of the deed,