All transitory titles I detest a virtuous life I mean to boast alone. Our birth's our sires' our virtues be our own.

The mind is free, whate'er afflict the man, A King's a King, do Fortune what she can.

O blessed bounty, giving ail content! The only fautress of all noble arts That lend'st success to every good intent. A grace that rests in the most godlike hearts, By heav'n to none but happy souls infus'd Pity it is, that e'er thou wast abus'd.

Thus when we fondly flatter our desires, Our best conceits do prove the greatest liars.

When Time shall turne those Amber Lockes to Gray.

The Falcon and the Dove sit there together, And th 'one of them doth prune the others feather.

So in all humours sportively I range My muse is rightly of the English strain, That cannot long one fashion entertain.

WhenTime shall turn those amber locks to grey, My verse again shall gild and make them gay.

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part.

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part Nay, I have done, you get no more of me, And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart That thus so cleanly I myself can free Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.

It is your virtue, being men, to try And it is ours, by virtue to deny.

When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life, thou might'st him yet recover