And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.

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

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.

And through the hall there walked to and fro A jolly yeoman, marshall of the same, Whose name was Appetite; he did bestow Both guestes and meate, whenever in they came, And knew them how to order without blame.

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.

And painefull pleasure turnes to pleasing paine.

Together linkt with adamantine chains.