Death aims with fouler spite At fairer marks.

The world's an Inn; and I her guest.

This house is to be let for life or years; Her rent is sorrow, and her income tears. Cupid, 't has long stood void; her bills make known, She must be dearly le…

Let all thy joys be as the month of May And all thy days be as a marriage day: Let sorrow, sickness, and a troubled mind Be stranger to thee.