Oft changed he place in hope away to wind,
But change of place could never change his mind,
Himself he flies to lose, but follows but to find.
Giles Fletcher.
There is a kind of conscience some men keep,
Is like a member that’s benumbed with sleep;
Which, as it gathers blood, and wakes again,
It shoots, and pricks, and feels as big as ten.
Quarles.
The swelling of an outward fortune can