No, Not Jove Himselfe, At One Time,

Give House-room To The Best; 'tis Never Known Verture And Pleasure Both To Dwell In One.

Gather Ye Rose-buds While Ye May, Old Time Is Still A Flying: And This Same Flower That Smiles To Day, Tomorrow Will Be Dying.

Attempt The End And Never Stand To Doubt; Nothing's So Hard, But Search Will Find It Out.

In Prayer The Lips Ne'er Act The Winning Part, Without The Sweet Concurrence Of The Heart.

What Though The Sea Be Calm? Trust To The Shore, Ships Have Been Drown'd, Where Late They Danc'd Before.