Woman, The More Careful She

Wine It Is The Milk Of Venus, And The Poet's Horse Accounted: Ply It And You All Are Mounted.

Come, My Celia, Let Us Prove, While We Can, The Sports Of Love, Time Will Not Be Ours For Ever, He, At Length, Our Good Will Sever; Spend Not Then His Gifts In Vain: Suns That Set May Rise Again; But If Once We Lose This Light, 'tis With Us Perpetual Night. Why Should We Defer Our Joys? Fame And Rumour Are But Toys.

The Day For Whose Returns, And Many, All These Pray; And So Do I.

A Good Man Should And Must Sit Rather Down With Loss Than Rise Unjust.

The Man That Is Once Hated, Both His Good And His Evil Deeds Oppress Him.