When The Age Is In, The Wit

I Know A Bank Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows, Quite Over-canopied With Luscious Woodbine, With Sweet Musk-roses And With Eglantine.

Thou Art The Mars Of Malcontents.

Lechery, Lechery; Still, Wars And Lechery: Nothing Else Holds Fashion.

O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes' Favors.

He's Of The Colour Of The Nutmeg. And Of The Heat Of The Ginger.... He Is Pure Air And Fire; And The Dull Elements Of Earth And Water Never Appear In Him, But Only In Patient Stillness While His Rider Mounts Him; He Is Indeed A Horse, And All Other Jades You May Call Beasts.