Beauty Lives With Kindness.

Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety.

But Shall We Wear These Glories For A Day? Or Shall They Last, And We Rejoice In Them?

Let Me Be Boiled To Death With Melancholy.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

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