Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I

Could Beauty, My Lord, Have Better Commerce Than With Honesty?

If I Were A Woman I Would Kiss As Many Of You As Had Beards That Pleased Me, Complexions That Liked Me And Breaths That I Defied Not

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension, And The Poor Beetle, That We Tread Upon, In Corporal Sufferance Finds A Pang As Great As When A Giant Dies.

Receive What Cheer You May. The Night Is Long That Never Finds The Day.

Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.