Tears are the noble language of the eye.
Give, if thou can, an alms; if not, a sweet and gentle word.
Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold; New things succeed, as former things grow old.
Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, for a benison to fall on our meat, and on us all. Amen.
Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.