Who, toss'd with restless breath, Are but a drachm of dust; Yet fools whenas we err, And heavens do wrath contract, If they a space defer Just vengeance to exact, Pride in our bosom creeps, And misinforms us thus That love in pleasure sleeps Or takes no care of us: 'The eye of Heaven beholds What every heart enfolds.
"A History of English Literature Elizabethan Literature"
George Saintsbury