But what the writer will, may written be.
For Nature, in man's heart her laws doth pen,
Prescribing Truth to Wit! and Good to Will!
Which do accuse, or else excuse all men,
For every thought or practice, good or ill!
And yet these sparks grow almost infinite,
Making the world and all therein, their food;
As fire so spreads, as no place holdeth it,
Being nourished still with new supplies of wood.