O Gentle Son, Upon The Heat And

Women Are As Roses, Whose Fair Flower, Being Once Displayed, Doth Fall That Very Hour.

What Is A Man, If His Chief Good And Market Of His Time Be But To Sleep And Feed? A Beast, No More.

They Are Hare-brain'd Slaves.

Keep Time! How Sour Sweet Music Is When Time Is Broke And No Proportion Kept! So Is It In The Music Of Men's Lives. I Wasted Time And Now Doth Time Waste Me.

Grief Best Is Pleased With Grief's Society.