Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more, As a worm sucking an envenomed sore? Doth not thy fearful hand in felling quake, As one which gathering flowers, still fears a snake? Is not your last act harsh, and violent, As when a plough a stony ground doth rent?

-Donne,John
c.1595  Elegies, no.8,'The Comparison'.

No princely pomp, no wealthy store, No force to win the victory, No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to feed each gazing eye; To none of these I yield as thrall. For why my mind doth serve for all.

-Dyer, Sir Edward
  'In Praise of a Contented Mind'.