The Seasons Change Their Manners, As The

If Thou Couldst, Doctor, Cast The Water Of My Land, Find Her Disease, And Purge It To A Sound And Pristine Health, I Would Applaud Thee To The Very Echo, That Should Applaud You Again.

As You Are Old And Reverend, You Should Be Wise.

I Will Be Free, Even To The Uttermost, As I Please, In Words.

Now Old Desire Doth In His Deathbed Lie, And Young Affection Gapes To Be His Heir; That Fair For Which Love Groan'd For And Would Die, With Tender Juliet Match'd, Is Now Not Fair.

Thou Shalt Not Stir One Foot To Seek A Foe.