Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.

Fly from wrath; sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war; a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.

Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyless dread, and makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts to languish and to pine.

And painefull pleasure turnes to pleasing paine.

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

Gold all is not that doth golden seem.

So furiously each other did assayle, As if their soules they would attonce haue rent Out of their brests, that streames of bloud did rayle Adowne, as if their springes of life were spent; That all the ground with purple bloud was sprent, And all their armours staynd with bloudie gore, Yet scarcely once to breath would they relent, So mortall was their malice and so sore, Become of fayned friendship which they vow'd afore.