Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

But Love That Comes Too Late, Like A Remorseful Pardon Slowly Carried, To The Great Sender Turns A Sour Offense, Crying, 'that's Good That's Gone.

Thou Know'st 'tis Common; All That Lives Must Die, Passing Through Nature To Eternity.

I Do The Wrong, And First Begin To Brawl. The Secret Mischiefs That I Set Abroach I Lay Unto The Grievous Charge Of Others.

I Am Not Bound To Please Thee With My Answer.

On The Bat’s Back I Do Fly After Summer Merrily.