When all birds else do of their music fail,
Money's the still-sweet-singing nightingale!

Though frankincense the deities require,
We must not give all to the hallow'd fire.
Such be our gifts, and such be our expense,
As for ourselves to leave some frankince

Beauty no other thing is, than a beam
Flash'd out between the middle and extreme.

When words we want, Love teacheth to indite;
And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.

For all our works a recompence is sure;
'Tis sweet to think on what was hard t'endure.

Want is a softer wax, that takes thereon,
This, that, and every base impression,

Praise, they that will, times past: I joy to see
Myself now live; this age best pleaseth me!

No man such rare parts hath, that he can swim,
If favour or occasion help not him.

Things are uncertain; and the more we get,
The more on icy pavements we are set.

All has been plunder'd from me but my wit:
Fortune herself can lay no claim to it.