(1) Vpon my conscience whenso e're thou dy'st (Though in the black, the mourning time of Lent) There will be seene, in Kings-street (where thou ly'st) More triumphs, than in dayes of Parl'ament.
(2) How glad, and gaudy then will Lovers be? For ev'ry Lover that can Verses read, Hath beene so injur'd by thy Muse, and thee, Ten Thousand, Thousand times, he wish'd thee dead.
(3) Not but thy Verses are as smooth, and high, As Glory, Love, or Wine, from Wit can rayse; But now the Devill take such destinie! What should commend them, turnes to their disprayse.
(4) Thy Wit's chiefe Virtue, is become its Vice; For ev'ry Beauty thou hast rays'd so high, That now course-Faces carry such a price, As must undoe a Lover, if he buy.
(5) Scarce any of the Sex, admits commerce; It shames mee much to urge this in a Friend; But more, that they should so mistake thy Verse, Which meant to conquer, whom it did commend.
