He Wears The Rose Of Youth Upon

Men Must Endure Their Going Hence, Even As Their Coming Hither. Ripeness Is All.

Though I Look Old, Yet I Am Strong And Lusty; For In My Youth I Never Did Apply Hot And Rebellious Liquors In My Blood; And Did Not, With Unbashful Forehead, Woo The Means Of Weakness And Debility: Therefore My Age Is As A Lusty Winter, Frosty But Kindly.

Poor And Content, Is Rich And Rich Enough; But Riches, Fineless, Is As Poor As Winter, To Him That Ever Fears He Shall Be Poor.

Where Every Something, Being Blent Together Turns To A Wild Of Nothing.

My Long Sickness Of Health And Living Now Begins To Mend, And Nothing Brings Me All Things.