Aye me, how many perils do enfoldThe righteous man, to make him daily fall?Were not, that heavenly grace doth him uphold,And steadfast truth acquite him out of all.
Yet gold all is not, that doth gold seem,Nor all good knights, that shake well spear and shield:The worth of all men by their end esteem,And then praise, or due reproach them yield.
I hate the day, because it lendeth lightTo see all things, but not my love to see.
Why then should witless man so much misweeneThat nothing is but that which he hath seene?
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.
The poet’s scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. The Genius survives all else is claimed by death.
It is the mind that maketh good of ill that maketh wretch or happy rich or poor.
I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme From that time unto this season I received nor rhyme nor reason.
Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, Ease after war, death after life does greatly please.
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.