In Time We Hate That

We May Outrun By Violent Swiftness And Lose By Over-running.

For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

Tis A Cruelty To Load A Fallen Man.

I Had Rather Be A Dog, And Bay The Moon, Than Such A Roman.

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.