The Queen And Concubine A Comedie |
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 | The Queen And Concubine |  |
The second Song, for page. 111.
How bless'd are they that wast their wearied HoursIn solemn Groves, and solitarie Bowers,
Where neither eye nor Ear
Can see or hear
The frantique mirth
And false Delights of frolique earth:
Where they may sit and pant,
And breath their pursy Souls;
Where neither grief consumes, nor griping want.
Afflicts; nor sullen care controuls.
Away false Joys, ye Murther where ye kisse.
There is no Heaven to that, no Life to this.
| The Queen And Concubine | |