Fresh spring the herald of love's mighty king.

Then came October, full of merry glee.

And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.

Woe to the man that first did teach the cursed steel to bite in his own flesh, and make way to the living spirit!

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.

Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.

All love is sweet Given or returned And its familiar voice wearies not ever.