Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I

By That Sin Fell The Angels.

It Easeth Some, Though None It Ever Cured, To Think Their Dolour Others Have Endured.

He Makes A July's Day Short As December.

Though Fortune's Malice Overthrow My State, My Mind Exceeds The Compass Of Her Wheel.

I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.