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 There garlands wither on there brow;
  Then boast no more of mighty deeds;
 For on deaths purple alter now,
  See, where the victor victime bleeds:
    All heads must come
    To the cold tombe,
Only the actions of the iust
Smell sweet, and blossome in the dust.

 

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XII.

A Dialogue.

 

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Phillis.
Preethee tell me, faithlesse swaine,
Why didst thou such passion faine,
 On purpose to disceave me?
I noe sooner lov'd againe,
 But you began to leave me.

Strephon.
Phillis, we must blame our fate,
Kindnes hath a certaine date;