Up And Down, Up And

Love Is Your Master, For He Masters You; And He That Is So Yoked By A Fool Methinks Should Not Be Chronicled For Wise.

Time Is Like A Fashionable Host That Slightly Shakes His Parting Guest By The Hand, And With His Arm Outstretch'd, As He Would Fly, Grasps In The Comer.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

And Makes Me Poor Indeed.