Tixall Poetry.
115
Since my Phillis returns to the empire of harts,
He has new-strung his bow, and sharpened his darts,
And strictly the rights of his crown to maintaine,
He breakes every hart, and turnes every braine.
He has new-strung his bow, and sharpened his darts,
And strictly the rights of his crown to maintaine,
He breakes every hart, and turnes every braine.
VI.
Despair.
Like hermitt poore,
In pensive place obscure,
I meane to spend my dayes in endlesse doubt;
To waile such woes as time can never cure,
Where none but death shall ever find me out:
And at my gates dispaire shall linger still,
To let in death when love and fortune will.
In pensive place obscure,
I meane to spend my dayes in endlesse doubt;
To waile such woes as time can never cure,
Where none but death shall ever find me out:
And at my gates dispaire shall linger still,
To let in death when love and fortune will.
My food shall be
Of cares and sorrowes made,
Of cares and sorrowes made,
