All love is sweet Given or returned And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.
All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.
Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion