The World No Longer Lets Me Love,

I Prize Thy Love More Than Whole Mines Of Gold Or All The Riches That The East Doth Hold.

Youth Is The Time Of Getting, Middle Age Of Improving, And Old Age Of Spending.

The Stones And Trees, Insensible To Time, / Nor Age Nor Wrinkle On Their Front Are Seen; / If Winter Come, And Greenness Then Do Fade / A Spring Returns, And They More Youthful Made; / But Man Grows Old, Lies Down, Remains Where Once He's Laid.

If We Had Not Winter, The Spring Would Not Be So Pleasant; If We Did Not Sometimes Taste Of Adversity, Prosperity Would Not Be So Welcome.

My Age I Will Not Once Lament, / But Sing, My Time So Near Is Spent.