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

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

Gold all is not that doth golden seem.

There is continual spring, and harvest there Continual, both meeting at one time: For both the boughs do laughing blossoms bear, And with fresh colours deck the wanton prime, And eke attonce the heavy trees they climb, Which seem to labour under their fruits load: The whiles the joyous birds make their pastime Amongst the shady leaves, their sweet above, And their true loves without suspicion tell abroad.

For whatsoever from one place doth fall, Is with the tide unto an other brought: For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Ah, fool! faint heart fair lady ne'er could win.

And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.