As You Are Old And Reverend, You

The Better Part Of Valor Is Discretion, In The Which Better Part I Have Saved My Life.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.

Tis Not The Many Oaths That Make The Truth; But The Plain Single Vow, That Is Vow'd True.

When Love Begins To Sicken And Decay It Uses An Enforced Ceremony.

There's Nothing Ill Can Dwell In Such A Temple. If The Ill Spirit Have So Fair A House, Good Things Will Strive To Dwell With't