What Else May Hap, To Time I

When The Age Is In, The Wit Is Out

The Plants Look Up To Heaven, From Whence They Have Their Nourishment.

Thyself And Thy Belongings Are Not Thine Own So Proper, As To Waste Thyself Upon Thy Virtues, They On Thee. Heaven Doth With Us As We With Torches Do, Not Light Them For Themselves; For If Our Virtues Did Not Go Forth Of Us 't Were All Alike As If We Had Them Not. Spirits Are Not Finely Touch'd But To Fine Issues; Nor Nature Never Lends The Smallest Scruple Of Her Excellence, But, Like A Thrifty Goddess, She Determines Herself The Glory Of A Creditor - Both Thanks And Use.

And In Some Perfumes There Is More Delight Than In The Breath That From My Mistress Reeks. I Love To Hear Her Speak, Yet Well I Know That Music Hath A Far More Pleasing Sound.

He That Keeps Not Crust Nor Crum Weary Of All, Shall Want Some.