Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

For Where Thou Art, There Is The World Itself, With Every Several Pleasure In The World, And Where Thou Art Not, Desolation.

There's Place And Means For Every Man Alive.

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

For What Good Turn? Messenger: For The Best Turn Of The Bed.