Inconstancy Falls Off Ere It Begins.

My Heart Laments That Virtue Cannot Live Out Of The Teeth Of Emulation.

One Good Deed Dying Tongueless Slaughters A Thousand Waiting Upon That. Our Praises Are Our Wages.

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.

Is It Thy Will, Thy Image Should Keep Open My Heavy Eyelids To The Weary Night? Dost Thou Desire My Slumbers Should Be Broken, While Shadows Like To Thee Do Mock My Sight? Is It Thy Spirit That Thou Send'st From Thee So Far From Home Into My Deeds To Pry, To Find Out Shames And Idle Hours In Me, The Scope And Tenor Of Thy Jealousy? O, No! Thy Love, Though Much, Is Not So Great: It Is My Love That Keeps Mine Eye Awake: Mine Own True Love That Doth My Rest Defeat, To Play The Watchman Ever For Thy Sake: For Thee Watch I, Whilst Thou Dost Wake Elsewhere, From Me Far Off, With Others All Too Near.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?