Brightness falls from the air, Queens have died young and fair, Dust hath closed Helen's eye. I am sick, I must die: Lord, have mercy on us. - Thomas Nashe

Evermore mayst thou be canonized as the Nonparreille of impious epistlers.

Spring, the sweete Spring, is the yeres pleasant King,
Then bloomes eche thing, then maydes daunce in a ring,
Cold doeth not sting, the pretty birds doe sing,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we, to witta woo.The Palme and May make countrey houses gay,
Lambs friske and play, the Shepherds pype all day,
And we heare aye birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we, to witta woo.The fields breathe sweete, the dayzies kisse our feete,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every streete, these tunes our eares doe greete,
Cuckow, jugge, jugge, pu we, to witta woo Spring, the sweete Spring.

Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour.