Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow.

There was this shadow, this double, this writer who had followed me into the cloister. He rides my shoulders I cannot lose him.

There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow. There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

The man of life upright,/ Whose guiltless heart is free/ From all dishonest deeds/ Or thought of vanity.

Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly; to every day we live, a day we die.

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet; / Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet.