All for love, and nothing for reward.
Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
So much more profitable and gracious is doctrine by example than by rule.
Such is the power of love in gentle mind, That it can alter all the course of kind.
Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
She bathed with roses red, And violets blew. And all the sweetest flowres That in the forrest grew.
I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.
But times do change and move continually.
Fretting grief the enemy of life.
And he that strives to touch the stars Oft stumbles at a straw.
Beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, an outward show of things that only seem.
Men, when their actions succeed not as they would, are always ready to impute the blame thereof to heaven, so as to excuse their own follies.
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.
So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought; Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
The poets scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives; all else is claimed by death.
Her angel's face, As the great eye of heaven shined bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place.
The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known, For a man by nothing is so well betrayed As by his manners.
A circle cannot fill a triangle, so neither can the whole world, if it were to be compassed, the heart of man; a man may as easily fill a chest with grace as the heart with gold. The air fills not the body, neither doth money the covetous mind of man.
O sacred hunger of ambitious minds.
Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere; Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; Sweet is the eglantine, but stiketh nere; Sweet is the firbloome, but its braunches rough; Sweet is the cypress, but its rynd is tough; Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough; And sweet is moly, but his root is ill.
In vain he seeketh others to suppress, Who hath not learn'd himself first to subdue.
Bright as does the morning star appear, Out of the east with flaming locks bedight, To tell the dawning day is drawing near.
Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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