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.

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

So much more profitable and gracious is doctrine by example than by rule.

The nightingale is sovereign of song.

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

All for love, and nothing for reward.

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.