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.

For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.

Gather therefore the Rose, whilst yet is prime, For soon comes age, that will her pride deflower: Gather the Rose of love, whilst yet is time.

All flesh doth frailty breed!

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

The poets scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives; all else is claimed by death.

Gold all is not that doth golden seem.