Make Not Your Thoughts Your Prisons.

The Daintiest Last, To Make The End Most Sweet.

O Heaven! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times.

Welcome Ever Smiles, And Farewell Goes Out Sighing.

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?

However Wickedness Outstrips Men, It Has No Wings To Fly From God.