Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.

And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.

Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.