The Sudden Hand Of Death

So Many Miseries Have Craz'd My Voice, That My Woe-wearied Tongue Is Still And Mute.

A Thousand Kisses Buys My Heart From Me; And Pay Them At Thy Leisure, One By One.

The Rarer Action Is In Virtue Than In Vengeance.

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

Men Must Learn Now With Pity To Dispense; For Policy Sits Above Conscience.