Ill can he rule the great that cannot reach the small.
Fly from wrath; sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war; a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
Vaine is the vaunt, and victory unjust, that more to mighty hands, then rightfull cause doth trust.
Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
Gather therefore the Rose, whilst yet is prime, For soon comes age, that will her pride deflower: Gather the Rose of love, whilst yet is time.