Thou Shouldst Not Have Been Old Till

But Thou, Contracted To Thine Own Bright Eyes, Feed'st Thy Light's Flame With Self-substantial Fuel, Making A Famine Where Abundance Lies, Thyself Thy Foe, To Thy Sweet Self Too Cruel.

Let Me, If Not By Birth, Have Lands By Wit; All With Me's Meet That I Can Fashion Fit.

Past And To Come, Seems Best; Things Present, Worse.

I Had Rather Be A Kitten And Cry Mew Than One Of These Same Metre Ballet-mongers.

Plutus Himself, That Knows The Tinct And Multiplying Med'cine, Hath Not In Nature's Mystery More Science Than I Have In This Ring.