In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
My wits begin to turn.
When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.
...lest too light winning make the prize light.
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; for in my youth I never did apply hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; and did not, with unbashful forehead, woo the means of weakness and debility: therefore my age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.