Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart. One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exild feels Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels. In parts superior what advantage lies? Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? T is but to know how little can be known; To see all others faults, and feel our own.
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shind, The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind! Or ravishd with the whistling of a name,2 See Cromwell, damnd to everlasting fame!3