Every Fair From Fair Sometime Declines

What Early Tongue So Sweet Saluteth Me?

Love Runs Away From Those Chasing Her, And Those Who Run Away, She Throws Herself On His Neck.

For I Have Sworn Thee Fair, And Thought Thee Bright, Who Art As Black As Hell, As Dark As Night.

Delay Leads Impotent And Snail-paced Beggary.

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.