unknown author

“ A Song
All the flatteries of fate,
Nor the pleasures of state,
Are nothing soe sweet as what love doth create:
If this you deny,
Tis time I should die,
Kind death's a reprieve when you threaten to hate. ”

“ And what too soon would die, help to destroy.
As if the cares of human life were few
We seek out new,
And follow fate, which does too fast pursue.
In vain does Nature's bounteous hand supply
What peevish mortals to themselves deny. ”