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.

We must, therefore, be here as strangers and pilgrims, that we may plainly declare that we seek a city above.

The world no longer lets me love, My hope and treasure are above.

Youth is the time of getting, middle age of improving, and old age of spending.

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.

But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid.

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue/ Who says my hand a needle better fits./ A poet's pen all scorn I should thus wrong/ For such despite they cast on female wits;/ If what I do prove well, it won't advance,/ They'll say it's stolen, or else, it was by chance.