The poem
SWeet is the Rose, but growes vpon a brere; Sweet is the Iunipere, but sharpe his bough; sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere; sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough. Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough, sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough; and sweet is Moly, but his root is ill. So euery sweet with soure is tempred still, that maketh it be coueted the more: for easie things that may be got at will, most sorts of men doe set but little store. Why then should I accoumpt of little paine, that endlesse pleasure shall vnto me gaine.