Wee'd smooth misfortune: and our selves thinke then
Retir'd like Princes from the noise of men,
To breath a while unflatter'd. Each wild beast,
That should the silence of our cell infest,
With clamor, seeking prey; Wee'd fancie were
Nought but an avaritious Courtier.
Wealth's but opinion. Who thinks others more
Of treasures have, than we, is[27] onely poore.
[27] he's. 1634.