All transitory titles I detest; a virtuous life I mean to boast alone. Our birth's our sires'; our virtues be our own.

With much we surfeit; plenty makes us poor.

Better sit still, than rise to meet the devil.

When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life, thou might'st him yet recover

WhenTime shall turn those amber locks to grey, My verse again shall gild and make them gay.

The Falcon and the Dove sit there together, And th 'one of them doth prune the others feather.

When Time shall turne those Amber Lockes to Gray.