'Tis true, they have us fast, we cannot scape 'em Nor keeps the brow of fortune one smile for us, Dishonourable ends we can scape though, And (worse than those Captivities) we can die, And dying nobly, though we leave behind us These clods of flesh, that are too massie burthens, Our living souls flie crown'd with living conquests.

490 I. I saw an Image, all of massie gold, Placed on high upon an altare faire, That all which did the same from farre beholde Might worship it, and fall on lowest staire.