Summer is fled, and the fleeting swallows
Gather in grief on his path to pursue,
But not as the loss of one that follows,
Follows to find, is the loss that I rue;
For cold is the north, and from true friends parted,
Few can I find not colder-hearted.
Transcriber's Notes
Table of Content has been added to the beginning of this e-text. It was not available in the original book.
Obvious printer's errors have been repaired, inconsistent or archaic spellings have been kept.