The Trees That Are Slow To Grow

Great Is The Fortune Of He Who Possesses A Good Bottle, A Good Book, And A Good Friend.

Heaven Forbids, It Is True, Certain Gratifications, But There Are Ways And Means Of Compounding Such Matters.

Then Worms Shall Try That Long Preserved Virginity, And Your Quaint Honor Turn To Dust, And Into Ashes All My Lust. The Grave's A Fine And Private Place But None, I Think, Do There Embrace.

Ah, There Are No Children Nowadays.

New-born Desires, After All, Have Inexplicable Charms, And All The Pleasure Of Love Is In Variety.