The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green 10
And wither, and the beauty of the field
With winter wrinkled. Even thyself dost yield
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher;
But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.
William Habington.
LXXII
THE SURRENDER.
My once dear Love! hapless that I no more
Must call thee so—the rich affection’s store
That fed our hopes, lies now exhaust and spent,