Things are evermore sincere; / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.

The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.

Things are evermore sincere; / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.

Men are suspicious; prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.

Roses at first were white, Till thy co'd not agree, Whether my Sapho's breast, Or they more white sho'd be.

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.

Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.