RIch Damask Roses in fair cheeks do bide Of my sweet Girl, like April in his prime: But her hard heart, cold chilly snow doth hide; Of bitter Januar, the perfect sign. Her hair of gold shows yellow like the corn In July, when the sun doth scorch the ground; And her fair breast, ripe fruit which doth adorn September rich. So as in her is found Both Harvest, Summer, Winter, Spring to be: Which you in breast, hair, heart, and face may see.
XXXIX.
TH' immortal Parcæ, fatal Sisters three, Of mortal men, do sing the shunless fate: What once Was, what Is now, and what Shall Be; Their life, their death, their fortune, and their state. Our Song let be like theirs! for Three they were; And so our number is. Three are we here. Sing Laura then! Sing Love! and sing will I! Of dreary fortune mine, sing let us all! Let 's sing in doleful tune most mournfully, How 'Tis, how 'Twas, and hapless still Shall fall; The Present, Past, and (which none can mend) What Shall Be, world to come, withouten end.
XL.