'tis Best To Weigh The Enemy More

Good Things Should Be Praised.

Or Are You Like The Painting Of A Sorrow, A Face Without A Heart?

Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On A Stalk.

We Were Not Born To Sue, But To Command.

To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old, For As You Were When First Your Eye I Eyed, Such Seems Your Beauty Still. Three Winters Cold Have From The Forests Shook Three Summers' Pride, Three Beauteous Springs To Yellow Autumn Turn'd In Process Of The Seasons Have I Seen, Three April Perfumes In Three Hot Junes Burn'd, Since First I Saw You Fresh, Which Yet Are Green.