Before the end can no man judge, he doth say,
That any man is happy that here beareth breath,
But then by his end prettily judge we may.
Thus true happiness consisteth, saith he, after death.
If this be a truth, as undoubtedly it is,
What men are more foolish, wretched, and miserable,
Than those that in these treasures accompt their whole bliss?
Being infect with ambition, that sickness incurable;
Ah, wicked Adrastia, thou goddess deceivable,
Thus to pluck from men the sense of their mind,