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

For if good were not praised more than ill, None would choose goodness of his own free will.

Her angel’s face, As the great eye of heaven shined bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place.

Like as the culver on the bared bough Sits mourning for the absence of her mate.

Discord oft in music makes the sweeter lay.

The noblest mind the best contentment has.

Through knowledge we behold the world’s creation, How in his cradle first he fostered was; And judge of Nature’s cunning operation, How things she formed of a formless mass.

What more felicity can fall to creature, than to enjoy delight with liberty?

Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyless dread, and makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts to languish and to pine.

Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan’s beams, which then did glister fair.

The Patron of true Holinesse, Foule Errour doth defeate: Hypocrisie him to entrappe, Doth to his home entreate.

And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.

Men, when their actions succeed not as they would, are always ready to impute the blame thereof to heaven, so as to excuse their own follies.

Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.

So much more profitable and gracious is doctrine by example than by rule.

Fretting grief the enemy of life.

And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.