Where the living loath to be,
Heaven hath design'd to thee.
But it needs 'mongst us thou'lt rage,
Let thy fury feed on age.
Wrinckled browes, and withered thighs,
May supply thy sacrifice.
Yet perhaps as thou flew'st by,
A flamed dart shot from her eye,
Sing'd thy wings with wanton fire,
Whence th' art forc't to hover nigh her.