The Gloomy Shade Of Death.

Make The Upcoming Hour Overflow With Joy, And Let Pleasure Drown The Brim.

There Was Never Yet Fair Woman But She Made Mouths In A Glass.

As A Decrepit Father Takes Delight To See His Active Child Do Deeds Of Youth, So I, Made Lame By Fortune's Dearest Spite, Take All My Comfort Of Thy Worth And Truth.

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come; Love Alters Not With His Brief Hours And Weeks, But Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom. If This Be Error And Upon Me Prov'd, I Never Writ, Nor No Man Ever Lov'd.

Love That Well Which Thou Must Leave Ere Long.