Men Have Died From Time

Grief Fills The Room Up Of My Absent Child, Lies In His Bed, Walks Up And Down With Me, Puts On His Pretty Look, Repeats His Words, Remembers Me Of His Gracious Parts, Stuffs Out His Vacant Garments With His Form

I Have Very Poor And Unhappy Brains For Drinking: I Could Well Wish Courtesy Would Invent Some Other Custom Of Entertainment.

And She's Fair I Love.

It Is The Stars, The Stars Above Us, Govern Our Conditions.

Time Is The Old Justice That Examines All Such Offenders, And Let Time Try.