Wrinkles no more are, or no less,
Than beauty turn'd to sourness.

Men say you're fair; and fair ye are, 'tis true;
But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.

What though the sea be calm? Trust to the shore;
Ships have been drown'd, where late they danced before.

In man, ambition is the common'st thing;
Each one by nature loves to be a king.

Here we are all, by day; by night we're hurl'd
By dreams, each one into a several world.

Love is a circle, that doth restless move
In the same sweet eternity of Love.

In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part
Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.

True mirth resides not in the smiling skin;
The sweetest solace is to act no sin.

Every time seems short to be
That's measured by felicity;
But one half-hour that's made up here
With grief, seems longer than a year.

While fates permit us, let's be merry;
Pass all we must the fatal ferry;
And this our life, too, whirls away,
With the rotation of the day.