Shall I, like an hermit, dwell On a rock or in a cell? - Walter Raleigh

What is our life? A play of passion;
our mirth: the music of division;
our mother's wombs: the tiring houses be
where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is
that sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the searching sun
are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we playing to our latest rest,
only we die in earnest, that's no jest.

So the heart be right, it is no matter which way the head lies.

So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing — Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing —
Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can kill.