“No dainty flower or herbs that grows on ground, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweet, but there it might be found To bud out fair, and throw her sweet smells all around.”

All love is sweet Given or returned And its familiar voice wearies not ever.

This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.

Thankfulness is the tune of angels.

Together linkt with adamantine chains.

For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Those that were up themselves, kept others low; Those that were low themselves, held others hard; He suffered them to ryse or greater grow; But every one did strive his fellow down to throw.

Fondnesse it were for any being free, To covet fetters, though they golden bee.

Who would ever care to do brave deed, Or strive in virtue others to excel, If none should yield him his deserved meed Due praise, that is the spur of doing well? For if good were not praised more than ill, None would choose goodness of his own free will.

Man’s wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.

The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.

But O the exceeding grace Of highest God, that loves his creatures so, And all his works with mercy doth embrace, That blessed angels, he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe.

For since mine eyes your joyous sight did miss, my cheerful day is turned to cheerless night.

Sluggish idleness–the nurse of sin.

Yet is there one more cursed than they all, That canker-worm, that monster, jealousie, Which eats the heart and feeds upon the gall, Turning all love’s delight to misery, Through fear of losing his felicity.

For we by conquest, of our soveraine might,And by eternall doome of Fate’s decree,Have wonne the Empire of the Heavens bright.

Death is an equall doome To good and bad, the common In of rest.

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, it’s bloom is shed; Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.

Beautiful flower, grow untamed.

I think you’re made of flowers, how you bloom when there’s light in your skin.

All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid.

How many perils doe enfold The righteous man to make him daily fall.

As one sits here in summertime and listens to the cuckoo and all the other bird songs, the crackling and buzzing of insects, as one gazes at the shining colors of flowers, doth one become dumbstruck before the Kingdom of the Creator.

I knew I held strength when in the darkest, coldest corner of my mind I managed to make flowers grow.

I wanted to know the name of every stone and flower and insect and bird and beast. I wanted to know where it got its color, where it got its life – but there was no one to tell me.