They wear no frown to dash down hearts; nor chide
When ears are sick for quickening praise; but yield
Their royal payment for each passing care;
No vagrant dew gives them its moistening heart
But they must pay it thrice in perfumed beauty,
And bury it as never king shall lie.
O human faces, might ye turn to flowers,
How many broken hearts would live again!
Phil. This is a covert chiding of my faults,
So deep repented, love. I'll make thee happy.