Time's Glory Is To Command Contending Kings,

And She's Fair I Love.

How Soar Sweet Music Is, When Time Is Broke, And No Proportion Kept!

Could Beauty, My Lord, Have Better Commerce Than With Honesty?

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

I Can Give The Loser Leave To Chide.