He that loves Gold, starves more, the more he's fed

Sweet Youth, in Colour no such trust repose.

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

Now fields are green, and trees bear silver buds.