The Indies, Philip, spread not like thy robe;
Art thou the new horizon to the globe?
Down, pickaxe; to the depths for gold let’s go;
We’ll undermine Peru. Is’nt heaven below?
Who gripes too much casts all upon the ground; 45
Too great a greatness greatness doth confound.
All things are wonder since the world began;
The world’s a riddle, and the meaning’s man.
Barten Holyday.