Sweet Youth, in Colour no such trust repose

Now fields are green, and trees bear silver buds.

The hope of my poor Flock.

Great things to compare with Small.

Britany, from all the World disjoyn'd.

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

Ambush'd in grass, a deadly Serpent lyes.