For He Was Likely, Had

Shorten My Days Thou Canst With Sullen Sorrow, And Pluck Nights From Me, But Not Lend A Morrow; Thou Canst Help Time To Furrow Me With Age, But Stop No Wrinkle In His Pilgrimage.

Methinks You Are My Glass, And Not My Brother: I See By You I Am A Sweet-faced Youth.

My Affection Hath An Unknown Bottom, Like The Bay Of Portugal.

Thus May Poor Fools Belive False Teachers.

Omittance Is No Quittance.