Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale

Men Are April When They Woo, December When They Wed. Maids Are May When They Are Maids, But The Sky Changes When They Are Wives.

Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loath To Prove Reason With Them.

Some Kinds Of Baseness Are Nobly Undergone.

Should The Poor Be Flattered? No; Let The Candied Tongue Lick Absurd Pomp, And Crook The Pregnant Hinges Of The Knee Where Thrift May Follow Fawning.

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.