Hard is that heart which beauty makes not soft

The throne of Cupid had an easy stair; His bark is fit to sail with every wind; The breach he makes no wisdom can repair.

The rose within herself her sweetness closed.

The golden sun rose from the silver wave, And with his beams enamelled every green.

Better sit still, men say, than rise to fall.

Aurora bright her crystal gates unbarred, And bridegroom-like forth stept the glorious sun.

Patience, a praise; forbearance is a treasure; Sufferance, an angel is; a monster, rage.