They Are Hare-brain'd Slaves.

Merrily, Merrily Shall I Live Now, Under The Blossom That Hangs On The Bough.

Sweets To The Sweet.

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

Sin, That Amends, Is But Patched With Virtue.