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.

In things a moderation keep; Kings ought to shear, not skin, their sheep.

Fain would I kiss my Julia's dainty leg, Which is as white and hairless as an egg.

Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.

Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold; New things succeed, as former things grow old.

Who covets more is evermore a slave.

Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.