Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men

Have You Not A Moist Eye, A Dry Hand, A Yellow Cheek, A White Beard, A Decreasing Leg, An Increasing Belly? Is Not Your Voice Broken, Your Wind Short, Your Chin Double, Your Wit Single, And Every Part About You Blasted With Antiquity?

And I Will Make It Felony To Drink Small Beer.

I Do Not Hate A Proud Man, As I Do Hate The Engendering Of Toads.

The Due Of Honor In No Point Omit.

So Sweet Was Ne'er So Fatal. I Must Weep. But They Are Creul Tears. This Sorrow's Heavenly; It Strikes Where It Doth Love.