One good Art's better than a thousand bad

Britany, from all the World disjoyn'd.

Sweet Youth, in Colour no such trust repose.

Fliest thou me? Now by these Tears, by this Right hand I thee (Who now unfortunate can boast no more) By our late Vows, our Nuptial Rites implore; If e're I did oblige, if ever please, Take pitie on a falling House; And these

Great things to compare with Small.

The hope of my poor Flock.

Now fields are green, and trees bear silver buds.