How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?

Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

A Light Heart Lives Long.

Time Goes On Crutches Till Love Have All His Rites.

I Bear A Charmed Life.

Therefore The Moon, The Governess Of Floods, Pale In Her Anger Washes All The Air, That Rheumatic Diseases Do Abound; And Through This Distemperature We See The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.