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 but a wound to woe ; 
Gentle fair, mourn, mourn no moe. 
L 
B 
Fletcher 
