The man whom nature's self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.
Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion
The nightingale is sovereign of song.
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.
Ah, fool! faint heart fair lady ne'er could win.