Love Does Not See With The Eyes,

I Have Of Late--but Wherefore I Know Not--lost All My Mirth, Forgone All Custom Of Exercise.

What Else May Hap, To Time I Will Commit.

Patch Up Thine Old Body For Heaven.

Thus Sometimes Hath The Brightest Day A Cloud; And After Summer Evermore Succeeds Barren Winter, With His Wrathful Nipping Cold: So Cares And Joys Abound, As Seasons Fleet.

Every Cloud Engenders Not A Storm.