This Blessed Plot, This Earth, This Realm,

Take But Degree Away, Untune That String, And Hark, What Discord Follows!

Time Is Like A Fashionable Host That Slightly Shakes His Parting Guest By The Hand, And With His Arm Outstretch'd, As He Would Fly, Grasps In The Comer.

Hold, Or Cut Bowstrings.

Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

Then Love-devouring Death Do What He Dare.