This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.
Greatest god below the sky.
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 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?
All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid
So Orpheus did for his owne bride, So I unto my selfe alone will sing, The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.
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.
Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyless dread, and makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts to languish and to pine.
Hasty wrath and heedless hazardy do breed repentance late and lasting infamy.
I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortal life, the leaf, the bud, the flower; No more doth flourish after first decay, That erst was sought to deck both bed and bower Of many a lady and many a paramour. Gather therefore the rose whilst yet in prime, For soon comes age that will her pride deflower. Gather the rose of love whilst yet in time, Whilst loving thou mayst loved be with equal crime.
There is no disputing about taste.
For take thy ballaunce if thou be so wise, And weigh the winds that under heaven doth blow; Or weigh the light that in the east doth rise; Or weigh the thought that from man's mind doth flow.
And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.
O happy earth, Whereon thy innocent feet doe ever tread!
The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring, His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded.
The gentle minde by gentle deeds is knowne.
What man that sees the ever-whirling wheel Of Change, the which all mortal things doth sway.
Gather therefore the Rose, whilst yet is prime, For soon comes age, that will her pride deflower: Gather the Rose of love, whilst yet is time.
For of the soule the bodie forme doth take; For the soule is forme, and doth the bodie make.
Vaine is the vaunt, and victory unjust, that more to mighty hands, then rightfull cause doth trust.
Entire affection hateth nicer hands.
Pour out the wine without restraint or stay, Pour not by cups, but by the bellyful, Pour out to all that wull.
Ah when will this long weary day have end, And lend me leave to come unto my love? How slowly do the hours their numbers spend! How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washèd it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
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