My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.

I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still;My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.

The wheel is come full circle.

I am not worthy of the wealth I owe, nor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is; but, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal what law does vouch mine own.

My crown is in my heart, not in my head, Nor decked with diamonds and Indian stones, Nor to be seen; my crown is called contentment; A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.