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Tixall Poetry.
Tis true our lives are but a long disease,
Made up of real cares, and seeming ease.
Ye Gods, who these uncertain favours give,
O, tell me why,
It is so hard to die,
Yet such a taske to live.
Made up of real cares, and seeming ease.
Ye Gods, who these uncertain favours give,
O, tell me why,
It is so hard to die,
Yet such a taske to live.
XXIII.
TO FLORA.
What though faire Flora frownes on mee,
Tis but a chance of destinie;
The wisest I have heard to say,
Tis duske before the breake of day.
Why should I curse that houre of night,
That brings the day to light?
Tis but a chance of destinie;
The wisest I have heard to say,
Tis duske before the breake of day.
Why should I curse that houre of night,
That brings the day to light?
Each angry looke appeares to me,
As witne» of her modesty;
As witne» of her modesty;
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