Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor

Oft Have I Heard That Grief Softens The Mind And Makes It Fearful And Degenerate.

Things Base And Vile, Holding No Quantity, Love Can Transpose To Form And Dignity. Love Looks Not With The Eyes, But With The Mind, And Therefore Is Winged Cupid Painted Blind. Nor Hath Love's Mind Of Any Judgment Taste; Wings And No Eyes Figure Unheedy Haste.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

The Bay-trees In Our Country Are All Withered, And Meteors Fright The Fixèd Stars Of Heaven. The Pale-faced Moon Looks Bloody On The Earth, And Lean-looked Prophets Whisper Fearful Change. Rich Men Look Sad, And Ruffians Dance And Leap; The One In Fear To Lose What They Enjoy, The Other To Enjoy By Rage And War. These Signs Forerun The Death Or Fall Of Kings.

A Fellow By The Hand Of Nature Mark'd, Quoted, And Sign'd, To Do A Deed Of Shame.