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

For since mine eyes your joyous sight did miss, my cheerful day is turned to cheerless night.

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.

Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyless dread, and makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts to languish and to pine.

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

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

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.