And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.
The noblest mind the best contentment has
All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
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.
Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
In one consort there sat cruel revenge and rancorous despite, disloyal treason and heart-burning hate.