All for love, and nothing for reward.

Ah, fool! faint heart fair lady ne'er could win.

Ah when will this long weary day have end, And lend me leave to come unto my love? How slowly do the hours their numbers spend! How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!

This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.

Fresh spring the herald of love's mighty king.

Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.

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