Deep Vers'd In Books, And Shallow In

Evil On Itself Shall Back Recoil.

Nor Jealousy Was Understood, The Injur'd Lover's Hell.

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap, Or Be With Ease Gathered, Not Harshly Plucked, For Death Mature: This Is Old Age; But Then Thou Must Outlive Thy Youth, Thy Strength, Thy Beauty, Which Will Change To Withered Weak And Grey.

Till Old Experience Do Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

Our Cure, To Be No More; Sad Cure!