For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Fly from wrath; sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war; a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.

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. Vain man (said she) that dost in vain assay A mortal thing so to immortalise; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wipèd out likewise. Not so (quod I); let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame; My verse your virtues rare shall eternise, And in the heavens write your glorious name: Where, when as Death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.

Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyless dread, and makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts to languish and to pine.

Then came October, full of merry glee.

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

All flesh doth frailty breed!