That Wrong Measure

Nor mete out truth and right-deserving praise,  By that wrong measure of confusion  The vulgar foot: that never takes his ways  By reason, but by imitation;  Rolling on with the rest, and never weighs  The course which he should go, but what is gone.Nor mete out truth and right-deserving praise,

By that wrong measure of confusion

The vulgar foot: that never takes his ways

By reason, but by imitation;

Rolling on with the rest, and never weighs

The course which he should go, but what is gone.

Well were it with mankind, if what the most

Did like were best, but ignorance will live

By others square, as by example lost;

And man to man must the hand of error give

That none can fall alone at their own cost,

And all because men judge not, but believe.

For what poor bounds have they whom but the earth bounds,

What is their end whereto their care attains,

When the thing got relieves not, but confounds

Having but travail to succeed their pains?

What joy hath he of living that propounds

Affliction but his end, and grief his gains?

Gathering, encroching, wresting, joining to,

Destroying, building, decking, furnishing,

Repairing, altering, and so much ado

To his soul’s toil, and bodies travailing:

And all this doth he little knowing who

Fortune ordains to have the inheriting.

And his fair house raised high in envy’s eye,

Whose pillars reared perhaps on blood & wrong

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