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the lord;
Next for ordaining that thy words not swell
To any one unsober syllable:
These I could praise thee for beyond another,
Wert thou a Winstfield only, not a brother.
Consonant, harmonious.
591. THE HEADACHE.
My head doth ache,
O Sappho! take
Thy fillet,
And bind the pain,
Or bring some bane
To kill it.
But less that part
Than my poor heart
Now is sick;
One kiss from thee
Will counsel be
And physic.
592. ON HIMSELF.
Live by thy muse thou shalt, when others die
Leaving no fame to long posterity:
When monarchies trans-shifted are, and gone,
Here shall endure thy vast dominion.
593. UPON A MAID.
Hence a blessed soul is fled,
Leaving here the body dead;
Which since here they can't combine,
For the saint we'll keep the shrine.
