Our Present Tears Here, Not

Then Be Not Coy, But Use Your Time; And While Ye May, Go Marry: For Having Lost But Once Your Prime, You May For Ever Tarry.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Gather Ye Rosebuds, While Ye May.

Let's Live With That Small Pittance Which We Have; Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

The First Act's Doubtful, But We Say, It Is The Last Commends The Play.