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457. TO ENJOY THE TIME.
While Fates permit us let's be merry,
Pass all we must the fatal ferry;
And this our life too whirls away
With the rotation of the day.
458. UPON LOVE.
Love, I have broke
Thy yoke,
The neck is free;
But when I'm next
Love-vexed,
Then shackle me.
'Tis better yet
To fret
The feet or hands,
Than to enthral
Or gall
The neck with bands.
459. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MILDMAY, EARL OF WESTMORELAND.
You are a lord, an earl, nay more, a man
Who writes sweet numbers well as any can;
If so, why then are not these verses hurled,
Like Sybil's leaves, throughout the ample world?
