You who a mistick patches losse can mourne,
Vew this, and soone your idle passion scorne:
You whom a dog and munkye's death displease,
See this, and blush at your unwise disease.
Thus our vane age's humours you reforme,
And tis your wisdome tempers follye's storm.
Whose fortitude's like this? Who has an eye
That does not melt when such a losse is nigh?
Your heart I feare wept, as your eyes did smile;
Judgment and love you only reconsile.
Thes times afford none such, here trifles move
As much our care as what is worth our love.
Some happier dayes we must survay, to vew
Who had like losse, who bore it like to you:
But tis in vane; we should our labor loose,
She can't be match'd, and we should you abuse,
By all comparisons but yourselfes alone;
She does the mother, you the daughter owne.