Thankfulness is the tune of angels.

The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.

No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.

The noblest mind the best contentment has

For whatsoever from one place doth fall, Is with the tide unto an other brought: For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.

All love is sweet Given or returned And its familiar voice wearies not ever.