Woe to the man that first did teach the cursed steel to bite in his own flesh, and make way to the living spirit!

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

Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion

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

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.

Fresh spring the herald of love's mighty king.