I am obnoxious to each carping tongue who says my hand a needle better fits.

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

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.

There is no object that we see; no action that we do; no good that we enjoy; no evil that we feel, or fear, but we may make some spiritual advantage of all: and he that makes such improvement is wise, as well as pious.

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue who says my hand a needle better fits.

I wish my Sun may never set, but burn.

Sweet words are like honey, a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.