Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.

I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.

To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.

In chambers deep, Where waters sleep, What unknown treasures pave the floor.

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.