That Old Bald Cheater, Time.

Though I Am Young, And Cannot Tell Either What Death Or Love Is Well, Yet I Have Heard They Both Bear Darts, And Both Do Aim At Human Hearts. And Then Again, I Have Been Told Love Wounds With Heat, As Death With Cold; So That I Fear They Do But Bring Extremes To Touch, And Mean One Thing. As In A Ruin We It Call One Thing To Be Blown Up, Or Fall; Or To Our End Like Way May Have By A Flash Of Lightning, Or A Wave; So Love’s Inflamèd Shaft Or Brand May Kill As Soon As Death’s Cold Hand; Except Love’s Fires The Virtue Have To Fight The Frost Out Of The Grave.

Mischiefs Feed / Like Beasts, Till They Be Fat, And Then They Bleed.

Sweet Meat Must Have Sour Sauce.

He Threatens Many That Hath Injured One.

Let Those That Merely Talk And Never Think, That Live In The Wild Anarchy Of Drink