A servile lot, decked with a pompous name;
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errors know.
William Drummond.
XXXII
SONNET.
Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,
The morning’s darling late, the summer’s queen,
Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so my life, contentments being dead, 5