Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.
Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score; Then to that twenty, add a hundred more: A thousand to that hundred: so kiss on, To make that thousand up a million. Treble that million, and when that is done, Let's kiss afresh, as when we first begun.
Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold; New things succeed, as former things grow old.