Poems of Anne Countess of Winchilsea 1903/A Song on Greife

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Sett by Mr. Estwick

Oh greif ! why hast thou so much pow'r,
Why doe the ruling Fates decree
No state shou'd e're without the[e] be,
Why, doest thou Joys, and hopes devour,
And cloath ev'n loue him self, in thy dark livery ?
Thou, and cold fear, thy close Allie,
Do not alone on life attend,
Butt following mortalls to their end,
Do wrack the wretches, whilst they dye;
And to eternal shades, too often, with them flye.

To thee, great Monark, I submitt,
Thy Sables, and thy Cypresse bring,
I own thy Pow'r, I own thee King,
Thy title, in my heart is writt,
And 'till that breaks, I ne'r shall freedom gett.
Forc'd smiles, thy rigour will allow,
And whilst thy seat is in the soul,
And there, all mirth thou doest controul,
Thou can'st admitt to outward show,
The smooth appearance, and disembl'd brow.