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SIR MARTYN.
XXVI.
Her kindeſt counſels ſcornd, and ſore did pine
To think what well ſhe knew would ſhortly be,
Cadwallins bloud debasd in Kathrins line;
For very dole ſhe died. Oh ſad propine,
Syr Knight, for all that care which ſhe did take!
How many a night, for coughs and colds of thine,
Has ſhe ſat up rare cordial broths to make,
And cockerd thee ſo kind with many a daintie cake!
XXVII.
Extends its twinkling line from ſpray to ſpray,
Gently as ſleep the weary lids invades,
So ſoft, ſo gently Pleaſure mines her way:
But whither will the ſmiling Fiend betray,
Ah, let the Knights approaching dayes declare!
Though everie bloome and flowre of buxom May
Beſtrew her path, to deſarts cold and bare
The mazy path betrays the giddy wight unware.
