Even for her sake. But presently our voice
Was turned to mourning, for that little time
That she’d enjoy: She wained in her prime
For Atropus, with her impartial knife,
Soon cut her Thread, and therewithall her Life.
And for the time, we may it well remember,
It being in unfortunate September,
Just at the Æquinox: She was cut down
In th’ harvest, and this day she’s to be sown,
Where we must leave her till the Resurrection;