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 Alas! 'tis now too late,
Philander to restore.
Why should the heavenly powers perswade
 Poore mortals to believe,
  That they guard us here,
  Are rewarders there,
 And all our joys deceive.

 A poniard then she tooke,
  And held it in her hand,
 And with with a dying looke,
  Said, thus I fate command.
 Philander, O my love 1 I come
  To meet thy shade below,
   I come, she cried,
   With a wound soe wide,
  I need no second blow.

 In purple waves her blood,
  Ran streaming downe the floor,
 Unmov'd she stood, to see her blood,
  And blest her dying houre.
 Philander, O Philander, still
  The bleeding Phillis cried;