I grow, I prosper;Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

A dish fit for the gods.

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings

Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.

For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men.

All the infections that the sun sucks upFrom bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make himBy inch-meal a disease!