But what we do determine oft we break.
Purpose is but the slave to memory176,
Of violent birth, but poor validity,
Which178 now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree,
But fall unshaken when they mellow be.
Most necessary 'tis that we forget180
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 enactures185 with themselves destroy:
Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;
Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident187.
This world is not for aye188, 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 down192, you mark his favourites flies:
The poor advanced193 makes friends of enemies.
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend194,
For who not needs195 shall never lack a friend,
And who in want a hollow friend doth try196,
Directly seasons him197 his enemy.
But, orderly
to end where I begun,
Our wills and fates do so contrary run
That our devices still200 are overthrown:
Our thoughts are ours, their ends201 none of our own.
So think thou wilt no second husband wed,
But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.