Yea Love oft fills mens breasts with melting snow
Drowning their Love-sick minds in flouds of woe.
What is Love, water then? it may be soe;
But hee saith trueth, that saith hee doth not knowe.
FINIS.
Page 71. Farewell to Love.
l. 12. His highnesse &c. 'Presumably his highness was made of gilt gingerbread.' Chambers. See Jonson, Bartholomew Fair, III. i.
ll. 28-30. As these lines stand in the old editions they are unintelligible:
Because that other curse of being short,
And only for a minute made to be