And all for love, and nothing for reward.

And all for love, and nothing for reward

True loves are often sown,
but seldom grow on ground.

Woe never wants, where every cause is caught, and rash Occasion makes unquiet life.

Vaine is the vaunt, and victory unjust, that more to mighty hands, then rightfull cause doth trust.

The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring, His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded.