III.
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.
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.
In some shady grove,
Will I wander and rove,
With Philomell, and the disconsolate dove;
With downe hanging wing,
They mournfully sing,
The tragicke events of unfortunate love.
Will I wander and rove,
With Philomell, and the disconsolate dove;
With downe hanging wing,
They mournfully sing,
The tragicke events of unfortunate love.
With my plaints He conspire,
To heighten loves fire,
Still vanquishing life, till at length I expire:
And when I am dead,
In some cold leavy bed,
Be interd with a dirge of that disolate quire.
To heighten loves fire,
Still vanquishing life, till at length I expire:
And when I am dead,
In some cold leavy bed,
Be interd with a dirge of that disolate quire.