SONG.

AUrelia, art thou mad
To let the World in me
Envy joyes I never had,
And censure them in thee.

Fill'd with grief for what is past,
Let us at length be wise,
And the Banquet boldly tast,
Since we have paid the price.

Love does easie souls despise,
Who lose themselves for toyes,
And escape for those devise,
VVho tast his utmost joyes.

To be thus for Trifles blam'd,
Like theirs a folly is,
VVho are for vain swearing damn'd,
And knew no higher bliss.

Love should like the year be crown'd,
With sweet variety;
Hope should in the Spring be found
Kind fears, and jealousie.

In the Summer flower should rise,
And in the Autumn Fruit;
His Spring doth else but mock our eyes,
And in a scoff salute.