Edmund Spenser

And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore,
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
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And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore,
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore.

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

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

There is no disputing about taste.
[Lat., De gustibus non disputandum.]

There is no disputing about taste.
[Lat., De gustibus non disputandum.]

Who will not mercie unto others show,
How can he mercie ever hope to have?

Who will not mercie unto others show,
How can he mercie ever hope to have?

Although the last, not least.

Although the last, not least.