Tixall Poetry.
123
There garlands wither on there brow;
Then boast no more of mighty deeds;
For on deaths purple alter now,
See, where the victor victime bleeds:
All heads must come
To the cold tombe,
Only the actions of the iust
Smell sweet, and blossome in the dust.
Then boast no more of mighty deeds;
For on deaths purple alter now,
See, where the victor victime bleeds:
All heads must come
To the cold tombe,
Only the actions of the iust
Smell sweet, and blossome in the dust.
XII.
A Dialogue.
Phillis.
Preethee tell me, faithlesse swaine,
Why didst thou such passion faine,
On purpose to disceave me?
I noe sooner lov'd againe,
But you began to leave me.
Preethee tell me, faithlesse swaine,
Why didst thou such passion faine,
On purpose to disceave me?
I noe sooner lov'd againe,
But you began to leave me.
Strephon.
Phillis, we must blame our fate,
Kindnes hath a certaine date;
Phillis, we must blame our fate,
Kindnes hath a certaine date;