But Man Grows Old, Lies Down, Remains

Flesh Of My Flesh, Bone Of My Bone, I Here, Though There, Yet Both But One.

The Stones And Trees, Insensible To Time, / Nor Age Nor Wrinkle On Their Front Are Seen; / If Winter Come, And Greenness Then Do Fade / A Spring Returns, And They More Youthful Made; / But Man Grows Old, Lies Down, Remains Where Once He's Laid.

I Happy Am, If Well With You.

He That Would Be Content With A Mean Condition Must Not Cast His Eye Upon One That Is In A Far Better Estate Than Himself, But Let Him Look Upon Him That Is Lower Than He Is, And, If He See That Such A One Bears Poverty Comfortably, It Will Help To Quiet Him.

To Sing Of Wars, Of Captains, And Of Kings/of Cities Founded, Common-wealths Begun/for My Mean Pen Are Too Superior Things.