In care, lest some advent'rous Lover may (T'increase his love) cast his owne Stock away; I (that finde, th'use of griefe is to grow wise) Forbid all trassique now 'tweene Hearts, and Eyes: Our remnant-love, let us discreetly save, Since not augment; for Love, lies in the Grave. Lest Men; whose patience is their senses sloth, That only live, t'expect the tedious growth Of what the following Sommer slowly yeelds; Whose faire Elizium, is their furrow'd Fields; Lest these, should so much prize mortalitie; They ne're would reach the wit, or faith to die; Know, Summer comes no more; to the dark bed Our Sunne is gone; the hopefull Spring is dead. And lest kind Poets, that delight to raise (With their just truths, not extasie of praise) Beauty to Fame; should rashly overthrow The credit of their Songs; I let them know Their Theame is lost; so lost, that I have griev'd, They never more can praise, and be beleev'd.
