Age, I Do Abhor Thee,

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore, So Do Our Minutes Hasten To Their End; Each Changing Place With That Which Goes Before, In Sequent Toil All Forwards Do Contend.

When You Depart From Me Sorrow Abides And Happiness Takes His Leave.

I Praise God For You, Sir: Your Reasons At Dinner Have Been Sharp And Sententious; Pleasant Without Scurrility, Witty Without Affectation, Audacious Without Impudency, Learned Without Opinion, And Strange With-out Heresy.

Such Is My Love, To Thee I So Belong, That For Thy Right Myself Will Bear All Wrong.

Thou Knowest, Winter Tames Man, Woman, And Beast.