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.
For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.
Greatest god below the sky.
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.
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!