The Proverb Is Something Musty.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

Lovers Can Do Their Amorous Rites By Their Own Beauties

The Summer's Flow'r Is To The Summer Sweet, Though To Itself It Only Live And Die' But If That Flow'r With Base Infection Meet, The Basest Weed Outbraves His Dignity: For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

To Bed, To Bed; Sleep Kill Those Pretty Eyes, And Give As Soft Attachment To Thy Senses, As Infants Empty Of All Thought.

Lawless Are They That Make Their Wills Their Law.