112
Tixall Poetry.
III.
A Song
All the flatteries of fate,
Nor the pleasures of state,
Are nothing soe sweet as what love doth create:
If this you deny,
Tis time I should die,
Kind death's a reprieve when you threaten to hate.
Nor the pleasures of state,
Are nothing soe sweet as what love doth create:
If this you deny,
Tis time I should die,
Kind death's a reprieve when you threaten to hate.
In some shady grove,
Will I wander and rove,
With Philomell, and the disconsolate dove;
With downe hanging wing,
They mournfully sing,
The tragicke events of unfortunate love.
Will I wander and rove,
With Philomell, and the disconsolate dove;
With downe hanging wing,
They mournfully sing,
The tragicke events of unfortunate love.
With my plaints He conspire,
To heighten loves fire,
To heighten loves fire,
