This firstling of the infant year

Think not, 'cause men flatt'ring say, Y' are fresh as April, sweet as May, Bright as the morning star, That you are so.

Love no more is made By the fireside, but in the cooler shade.

I thought Love’s plagues, like dragons, sat Only to fright us at the gate.

If ev'ry sweet, and ev'ry grace, Must fly from that forsaken face.

If the stout foe will not resign, When I besiege a town, I lose but what was never mine; But he that is cast down From enjoy’d beauty, feels a woe Only deposèd kings can know.

And old folks say there are no pains Like itch of love in agèd veins.