The Arms Are Fair, When

A Good Wit Will Make Use Of Anything.

Beauty Is But A Vain And Doubtful Good; A Shining Gloss That Fadeth Suddenly; A Flower That Dies When It Begins To Bud; A Doubtful Good, A Gloss, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour.

Beauty Too Rich For Use, For Earth Too Dear.

An Habitation Giddy And Unsure Hath He That Buildeth On The Vulgar Heart.

Time Be Thine, And Thy Best Graces Spend It At Thy Will.