In one consort there sat cruel revenge and rancorous despite, disloyal treason and heart-burning hate.
Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
For deeds to die, however nobly done, And thoughts of men to as themselves decay, But wise words taught in numbers for to run, Recorded by the Muses, live for ay.
All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
For evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.
And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.