Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will!
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next.
Thy overflow of good converts to bad.
Thus can the demi-god Authority make us pay down for our offence by weight.
Though she be but little, she is fierce.
Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven, So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, Will sate itself in a celestial bed, And prey on garbage.
Thou wear a lion’s hide! doff it for shame, And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.
Thou art a fellow of good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it.
Those happy smilets, that play’d on her ripe lip, seem’d not to know what guests were in her eyes; which parted thence, as pearls from diamonds dropp’d.
