How Soar Sweet Music Is, When Time

I Am Not Of That Feather, To Shake Off My Friend When He Must Need Me

For Youth No Less Becomes The Light And Careless Livery That It Wears, Than Settled Age His Sables, And His Weeds Importing Health And Graveness.

Shine Out Fair Sun, Till I Have Bought A Glass, That I May See My Shadow As I Pass.

A Little Fire Is Quickly Trodden Out, Which, Being Suffer'd, Rivers Cannot Quench.

For Night's Swift Dragons Cut The Clouds Full Fast, And Yonder Shines Aurora's Harbinger; At Whose Approach Ghosts Wandring Here And There Troop Home To Church-yards.... For Fear Lest Day Should Look Their Shames Upon, They Willfully Exile Themselves From Light, And Must For Aye Consort With Black Brow'd Night.