What dares not impious man for cursed Gold!

Britany, from all the World disjoyn'd.

Sweet Youth, in Colour no such trust repose.

The hope of my poor Flock.

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.

Now fields are green, and trees bear silver buds.