It is the mind that maketh good of ill, that maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor.
Full little knowest thou that hast not tried, What hell it is in suing long to bide: To loose good dayes, that might be better spent; To waste long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow.
For if good were not praised more than ill, None would chuse goodness of his own free will.
Death is an equall doome To good and bad, the common In of rest.