Fortune Reigns In Gifts Of The World.

I Could Be Well Content To Entertain The Lag-end Of My Life With Quiet Hours.

What Is Light, If Sylvia Be Not Seen? What Is Joy If Sylvia Be Not By?

His Heart As Far From Fraud As Heaven From Earth.

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

There Should Be Hours For Necessities, Not For Delights; Times To Repair Our Nature With Comforting Repose, And Not For Us To Waste These Times.