Lucasta | ||
To Lucasta.
1
I laugh and sing, but cannot tellWhether the folly on't sounds well;
But then I groan
Methinks in Tune,
Whilst Grief, Despair, and Fear, dance to the Air
Of my despised Prayer.
2
A pretty Antick Love does this,Then strikes a Galliard with a Kiss;
As in the end
The Chords they rend;
So you but with a touch from your fair Hand,
Turn all to Saraband.
Lucasta | ||