SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE f f
417 To a Lady asking him how long he would love her
IT is not, Ccha, in our power To say how long our love will last; It may be we within this hour
May lose those joys we now do taste; The Blessed, that immortal be, From change in love are only free.
Then since we mortal lovers are, Ask not how long our love will last;
But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure past:
Were it not madness to deny
To live because we're sure to
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��THOMAS FLATMAN M
418 The Sad Day
THE sad day'
When friends shall shake their heads, and say Of miserable me 'Hark, how he groans' Look, how he pants for breath' Sec how he struggles with the pangs of death When they shall say of these dear eyes 'How hollow, O how dim they be' Mark how his breast doth rise and swell When some old friend shall step to my bedside, Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide.
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