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

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.

Then came October, full of merry glee.

The nightingale is sovereign of song.

So furiously each other did assayle, As if their soules they would attonce haue rent Out of their brests, that streames of bloud did rayle Adowne, as if their springes of life were spent; That all the ground with purple bloud was sprent, And all their armours staynd with bloudie gore, Yet scarcely once to breath would they relent, So mortall was their malice and so sore, Become of fayned friendship which they vow'd afore.

Woe to the man that first did teach the cursed steel to bite in his own flesh, and make way to the living spirit!

Change still doth reign, and keep the greater sway.