The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.

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.

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.

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

Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.

My soul I'll pour into thee.