Hath teares at will to mourne for what he lost;
65He that hath trusted and his hope appeares
Wrong'd but by death may soone dissolve in teares;
But hee unhappy man whose love and trust
Nere met fruition nor a promise just,
For him (unlesse like thee hee deadly slepe)
70'Tis easier to runn mad then 'tis to weepe;
And yet I can. Fall then yee mournefull showers,
And as old time leades on the winged howers,