Thou Art A Castilian King Urinal!

Allow Not Nature More Than Nature Needs.

The Heavens Forbid But That Our Loves And Comforts Should Increase Even As Our Days Do Grow!

O My Good Lord, That Comfort Comes Too Late, 'tis Like A Pardon After Execution. That Gentle Physic, Given In Time, Had Cured Me; But Now I Am Past All Comforts Here But Prayers.

And Do So, Love, Yet When They Have Devised What Strainèd Touches Rhetoric Can Lend, Thou, Truly Fair, Wert Truly Sympathized In True Plain Words By Thy True-telling Friend; And Their Gross Painting Might Be Better Used Where Cheeks Need Blood; In Thee It Is Abused.

Golden Lads And Girls All Must As Chimney Sweepers Come To Dust.