POEM: THE SMOKES OF MELANCHOLY
I.
t losers prove, May paint my face seeing me, And e tate ree.
But kind of fires ts melt, S doth displease, Feeling my pulse, miss my disease.
II.
O no! O no! trial only ster juice of forsaken ain; Nay, former bliss adds to present pain, ates contain. Come, learners, to me, tunes lap; And, as you like my double lot, tread in my steps, or follo.
III.
For me, alas! I am full resolved t be dissolved; Nor break my e; Nor fail my faite; Nor cate:
But alruto fly Up to t shall I die in Phoenix fire.
t losers prove, May paint my face seeing me, And e tate ree.
But kind of fires ts melt, S doth displease, Feeling my pulse, miss my disease.
II.
O no! O no! trial only ster juice of forsaken ain; Nay, former bliss adds to present pain, ates contain. Come, learners, to me, tunes lap; And, as you like my double lot, tread in my steps, or follo.
III.
For me, alas! I am full resolved t be dissolved; Nor break my e; Nor fail my faite; Nor cate:
But alruto fly Up to t shall I die in Phoenix fire.