From her hand I could suspect no ill.

[W]hat is wanting to success, / If somehow every face, no matter how deform, / Evidence, to some one of hearts on earth, that, warm / Beneath the veriest ash, there hides a spark of soul / Which, quickened by love's breath, may yet pervade the whole / O' the grey, and, free again, be fire?

But hush! and from the children take away / Their founts aflow with tears, and talk them calm,

Shall they hoyſt me vp, And ſhew me to the ſhowting Varlotarie Of cenſuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt, Be gentle graue vnto me, rather on Nylus mudde Lay me ſtarke-nak'd, and let the water-Flies Blow me into abhorring;