When All Sinnes Grow Old, Coveteousnesse Is

Who Is So Deafe, As He That Will Not Hear?

I Know The Ways Of Pleasure, The Sweet Strains, The Lullings And The Relishes Of It.

None Is Borne Master.

No Love Is Foule, Nor Prison Fair.

Vertue Now Is In Herbs And Stones And Words Onely.