Thou Shouldst Not Have Been Old Till

Would The Cook Were O' My Mind!

Vice Repeated Is Like The Wandering Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eyes To Spread Itself.

How Poor Are They That Have Have Not Patients.

For Where Is Any Author In The World Teaches Such Beauty As A Woman's Eye?

Had I But Died An Hour Before This Chance, I Had Liv'd A Blessed Time; For, From This Instant, There's Nothing Serious In Mortality: All Is But Toys; Renown, And Grace Is Dead; The Wine Of Life Is Drawn, And The Mere Lees Is Left This Vault To Brag Of.