Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour.

Blest is that government where no art thrives.

Brightness falls from the air, Queens have died young and fair, Dust hath closed Helen's eye. I am sick, I must die: Lord, have mercy on us.

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant King, Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cucko…