Nor do an odd thing? Who would knuckle down,
And pay the piper as we’re asked to do,
But that the dread of being talked to death,
A fate to be discovered none too soon
As hanging over us, quite makes us ill,
And makes us rather rest with what we have
Than try to get what others owe not of?
Thus love of quiet doth make noodles of us all:
And thus, though we discern rare elocution,
We fickly fail, alas! so to be taught,