For that which all men then did virtue call, Is now called vice; and that which vice was hight, Is now hight virtue, and so used of all: Right now is wrong, and wrong that was is right
Woe to the man that first did teach the cursed steel to bite in his own flesh, and make way to the living spirit!
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.
But Justice, though her dome she doe prolong, Yet at the last she will her owne cause right.
And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.
After her came jolly June, arrayed All in green leaves, as he a player were; Yet in his time he wrought as well as played, That by his plough-irons mote right well appear. Upon a crab he rode, that did him bear, With crooked crawling steps, an uncouth pace, And backward rode, as bargemen wont to fare, Bending their force contrary to their face; Like that ungracious crew which feigns demurest grace.
To be wise and eke to love, Is granted scarce to gods above.
Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.
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.
Like as the culver on the bared bough Sits mourning for the absence of her mate
In one consort there sat cruel revenge and rancorous despite, disloyal treason and heart-burning hate.
Bright as does the morning star appear, Out of the east with flaming locks bedight, To tell the dawning day is drawing near.
All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid
The nightingale is sovereign of song.
good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete? What! hath some wolfe thy tender lambes ytorne? Or is thy bagpype broke, that soundes so sweete? Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne?
Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyless dread, and makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts to languish and to pine.
For evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.
For next to Death is Sleepe to be compared; Therefore his house is unto his annext: Here Sleepe, ther Richesse, and hel-gate them both betwext.
Greatest god below the sky.
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.
Hasty wrath and heedless hazardy do breed repentance late and lasting infamy.
From good to bad, and from bad to worse, From worse unto that is worst of all, And then return to his former fall.
Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.
This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.
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