Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since oer shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Is not old wine wholesomest, old pippins toothsomest, old wood burns brightest, old linen wash whitest? Old soldiers, sweetheart, are surest, and old lovers are soundest.2
A wise man poor Is like a sacred book that s never read, To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead. This age thinks better of a gilded fool Than of a threadbare saint in wisdoms school.