Why dost thou wish that she may live,

Whose living beauties make thee grieve!

Thou wouldst more wisely wish her kind,

That she may change her cruel mind;

Thy present wish but this can gain,

That she may live, and thou complain.

On a Prize-Fighter.

His thrusts like lightning flew, yet subtle death

Parried them all, and beat him out of breath.

The Penance.