T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.
Here a pretty Baby lies Sung asleep with Lullabies: Pray be silent, and not stirre The easie earth that covers her.
Humble we must be, if to heaven we go; High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.