All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.

Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.

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.

Nothing under heaven so strongly doth allure the sense of man, and all his mind possess, as beauty's love.

Vaine is the vaunt, and victory unjust, that more to mighty hands, then rightfull cause doth trust.

All flesh doth frailty breed!

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