Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain

Therefore Was I Created With A Stubborn Outside, With An Aspect Of Iron, That When I Come To Woo Ladies, I Fright Them. But, In Faith, Kate, The Elder I Wax, The Better I Shall Appear. My Comfort Is That Old Age, That Ill Layer-up Of Beauty, Can Do No More Spoil Upon My Face. Thou Hast Me, If Thou Hast Me, At The Worst, And Thou Shalt Wear Me, If Thou Wear Me, Better And Better.

Make Use Of Time, Let Not Advantage Slip; Beauty Within Itself Should Not Be Wasted: Fair Flowers That Are Not Gather'd In Their Prime Rot And Consume Themselves In Little Time.

These Flowers Are Like The Pleasures Of The World.

Words, Words, Mere Words, No Matter From The Heart.

Tear-falling Pity Dwells Not In This Eye.