Time's Glory Is To Command Contending Kings,

Love Moderately; Long Love Doth So; Too Swift Arrives As Tardy As Too Slow.

Grim-visaged War Hath Smoothed His Wrinkled Front; And Now, Instead Of Mounting Barbed Steeds To Fright The Souls Of Fearful Adversaries, He Capers Nimbly In A Lady's Chamber To The Lascivious Pleasing Of A Lute.

Verily, I Swear, It Is Better To Be Lowly Born, And Range With Humble Livers In Content, Than To Be Perked Up In A Glistering Grief, And Wear A Golden Sorrow.

To Beguile The Time, Look Like The Time.

But Virtue Never Will Be Mov'd, Though Lewdness Court It In A Shape Of Heaven.