58
Tixall Poetry.
And with how soft a blow of fortune's stroke,
The promises and vowes you heare are broke.
Now burst, it brekes into a lowder knell,
In prelud to your lover's passing-bell;
And toles a dirge to beautys overthrow,
That must have once its fall and breking too.
The promises and vowes you heare are broke.
Now burst, it brekes into a lowder knell,
In prelud to your lover's passing-bell;
And toles a dirge to beautys overthrow,
That must have once its fall and breking too.
A Broken Wether-Glasse.
Oh, trust not to mortality!
This glas was stronger fair then we;
No change of season could it dread,
No heat, no cold, and yet tis dead.
This glas was stronger fair then we;
No change of season could it dread,
No heat, no cold, and yet tis dead.
A Broken Burning-Glass.
Boast not thy sunlyke eyes consuming stroke;
This glasse burnt all things too, and yet tis broke.
This glasse burnt all things too, and yet tis broke.
