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.
Entire affection hateth nicer hands.
The nightingale is sovereign of song.
All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washèd it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.