Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;
20 For thou [exist’st] on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;
For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get.
And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not certain;
For thy complexion shifts to strange [effects],
III. 1
25 After the moon. [If] thou art rich, thou’rt poor;
For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death [unloads] thee. Friend hast thou none;