Now is Albino pinched with cruel Fate.
Which is the better, Cupid, or thy book?
Hadst viewed her beauty with a scornful eye
Thou hadst not tasted of her pride and fie.
Hapless Albin', and hapless so much more
Because Albin', rest quiet with thy lot;
1640If Nilus overflow his sandy floor,
Above twelve cubits, it procures a rot.
When at too high a pitch affections tow'r,
Fate with misfortunes oft their hopes doth sour.