The Earth, That Is Nature's Mother, Is

And Yet, By Heaven, I Think My Love As Rare As Any She Belied With False Compare.

There Live Not Three Good Men Unhanged In England; And One Of Them Is Fat And Grows Old.

What, Gone Without A Word? Ay, So True Love Should Do; It Cannot Speak, For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

There Is A History In All Men's Lives, Figuring The Nature Of The Times Deceased, The Which Observed, A Man May Prophesy, With A Near Aim, Of The Main Chance Of Things As Yet Not Come To Life, Which In Their Seeds And Weak Beginnings Lie Intreasured.

For You And I Are Past Our Dancing Days.