 | Poems |  |
76
Griefe ingrost.
Wherefore doe thy sad numbers flowSo full of woe?
Why dost thou melt in such soft straines,
Whilst she disdaines?
If she must still denie,
Weepe not, but dye:
And in thy Funerall fire,
Shall all her fame expire.
Thus both shall perish, and as thou on thy Hearse
Shall want her teares, so she shall want thy Verse;
Repine not then at thy blest state:
Thou art above thy fate;
But my faire Celia will nor give
Love enough to make me live;
Nor yet dart from her eye
Scorne enough to make me dye.
Then let me weepe alone, till her kind breath,
Or blow my teares away, or speake my death.
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