All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.
Gold all is not that doth golden seem.
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washèd it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
Fly from wrath; sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war; a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.
Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.