We Have Some Salt Of Our Youth

We Go To Gain A Little Patch Of Ground That Hath In It No Profit But The Name.

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

It Is Silliness To Live When To Live Is Torment.

Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers Are Unwrung.

O, The Difference Of Man And Man! To Thee A Woman's Services Are Due.