CHAPTER XXV. 
YEW—SORROW. 
Y. 
Weep no more, nor sigh nor groan, 
Sorrow calls no time that’s gone; 
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain 
Makes not fresh, nor grow again. 
Trim your locks, look cheerfully, 
Fate’s hidden ends no eye can see ; 
Joys as winged dreams fly fast, 
Why should sorrows longer last ? 
Grief is hut a wound to woe ; 
Gentle fair, mourn, mourn no moe. 
I. Fletcher., 
£ 
