Byrds of a fether, best flye together

Whylst grasse, doth growe ofte sterues the seely stéede.

What is this world, a net to snare the soule, A masse of sinne, a desart of deceipt, A momentes ioy, an age of wrecched dole: A lure from grace, for flesh a lothsome baite, Unto the minde a canker worme of care, Unsure, uniust, in rendring …

The riche mans wealth, is moste enemye vnto his health.

Well, I wyll set a face of brasse on it.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

So All is diff’rent, and yet All is One.