Nicholas Breton

I wish my deadly foe, no worse than want of friends, and empty purse.

— Nicholas Breton

Thus much for thy assurance know; a hollow friend is but a hellish foe.

— Nicholas Breton

It is now March, and the northern wind drieth up the southern dirt. The tender lips are now masked for fear of chapping, and the fair hands must not be ungloved. Now riseth the sun a pretty step to his fair height, and Saint Valentine calls the birds together where nature is pleased in the variety of love. . . . I hold it the servant of nature and the schoolmaster of art, the hope of labor and the subject of reason.

— Nicholas Breton

It is now April, and the nightingale begins to tune her throat against May. The sunny showers perfume the air and the bees begin to go abroad for honey. The dew, as in pearls, hangs upon the tops of the grass, while the turtles sit billing upon the little green boughs. . . . It were a world to set down the worth of this month, but in sum, I thus conclude: I hold it the heaven's blessing and the earth's comfort.

— Nicholas Breton

It is now August, and the sun is somewhat towards his declination, yet such is his heat as hardeneth the soft clay, dries up the standing ponds, withereth the sappy leaves, and scorcheth the skin of the naked.

— Nicholas Breton