[♦] So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;
[♦] So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
[♦] So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
Pass’d over to the end they were created,
40 Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
[♦] Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy
45 To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?