Thus much, he's dead:' and weep the rest.

To them shee gave the first and fairest beame
That waited on her birth: she gave to them

The purest pearles, that wept her evening death;
The balmy Zephirus got so sweet a breath.

By often kissing them. And now begun

Glad Time to ripen Expectation:

The timorous maiden-blossomes on each bough
Peept forth from their first blushes; so that now
A thousand ruddy hopes smil'd in each bud,
And flatter'd every greedy eye that stood
Fixt in delight, as if already there

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Those rare fruits dangled, whence the golden Yeare His crowne expected: when, (O Fate! O Time! That seldome lett'st a blushing youthfull prime

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Hide his hot beames in shade of silver age,

So rare is hoary Vertue) the dire rage

Of a mad storme these bloomy joyes all tore,

Ravisht the maiden blossoms, and downe bore

The trunke. Yet in this ground his pretious root
Still lives, which when weake Time shall be pour'd out
Into Eternity, and circular joyes

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Dance in an endlesse round, again shall rise

The faire son of an ever-youthfull Spring,

To be a shade for angels while they sing;

Meane while who e're thou art that passest here,
O doe thou water it with one kind teare.

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Why then should it e're be seen

That his should fade, while thine is green? 20

And wilt thou (O, cruell boast!)

Put poore Nature to such cost?

O, twill undoe our common mother,
To be at charge of such another.
What? thinke me to no other end

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