Hopes met at length, when ended is the iarre,
To see her Husband; see her Sonne again;
"Were it not then for Hope, the hart were slaine."
But I, whose hope is turned to despaire
Nere looke to see my dearest Deare againe:
Then Pleasure sit thou downe, in Sorrowes Chaire,
And (for a while) thy wonted Mirth refraine.
Bounty is dead, that whylome was my Treasure,
Bounty is dead, my joy and onely pleasure.
If Pythias death, of Damon were bewailed;