In things a moderation keep; Kings ought to shear, not skin, their sheep.
Things are evermore sincere; / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade; All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying; Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.
Who covets more is evermore a slave.
I do love I know not what; Sometimes this, and sometimes that.
He loves his bonds who, when the first are broke, Submits his neck into a second yoke.