When The Age Is In, The Wit

Love Moderately; Long Love Doth So; Too Swift Arrives As Tardy As Too Slow.

We Are Not Ourselves When Nature, Being Oppressed, Commands The Mind To Suffer With The Body.

So Full Of Artless Jealousy Is Guilt, It Spills Itself In Fearing To Be Spilt.

They Do Not Abuse The King That Flatter Him. For Flattery Is The Bellows Blows Up Sin; The Thing The Which Is Flattered, But A Spark To Which That Blast Gives Heat And Stronger Glowing.

O Helena, Goddess, Nymph, Perfect, Divine! To What, My Love, Shall I Compare Thine Eyne? Crystal Is Muddy. O, How Ripe In Show Thy Lips, Those Kissing Cherries, Tempting Grow!