In Delay There Lies No Plenty.

O, How I Faint When I Of You Do Write, Knowing A Better Spirit Doth Use Your Name, And In The Praise Thereof Spends All His Might To Make Me Tongue-tied Speaking Of Your Fame.

...too Much Sadness Hath Congealed Your Blood,and Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.

I Can Give The Loser Leave To Chide.

So Weary With Disasters, Tugg'd With Fortune, That I Would Set My Life On Any Chance, To Mend, Or Be Rid On't.

A Good Old Man, Sir. He Will Be Talking. As They Say, When The Age Is In, The Wit Is Out.