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

All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.

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.

In one consort there sat cruel revenge and rancorous despite, disloyal treason and heart-burning hate.

Thankfulness is the tune of angels.

There is continual spring, and harvest there Continual, both meeting at one time: For both the boughs do laughing blossoms bear, And with fresh colours deck the wanton prime, And eke attonce the heavy trees they climb, Which seem to labour under their fruits load: The whiles the joyous birds make their pastime Amongst the shady leaves, their sweet above, And their true loves without suspicion tell abroad.

Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.