I do believe you think what now you speak , But what we do determine oft we break . Purpose is but the slave to memory , Of violent birth, but poor validity , Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree , But fall, unshaken, when they mellow be . Most necessary ’tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt . What to ourselves in passion we propose , The passion ending, doth the purpose lose . The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy . Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament . Grief joys, joy grieves on slender accident . This world is not for aye, nor ’tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change . For ’tis a question left us yet to prove , Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love . The great man down, you mark his favorite flies . The poor advanced makes friends of enemies . And hitherto doth love on fortune tend , For who not needs shall never lack a friend , And who in want a hollow friend doth try
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