When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes, Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life, thou might'st him yet recover

With much we surfeit; plenty makes us poor.

Here when the labouring fish does at the foot arrive, And finds that by his strength but vainly he doth strive; His tail takes in his teeth, and bending like a bow, That's to the compass drawn, aloft himself doth throw: Then springing at his height, as doth a little wand, That, bended end to end, and flerted from the hand, Far off itself doth cast. so does the salmon vaut. And if at first he fail, his second sommersault He instantly assays and from his nimble ring, Still yarking never leaves, Until himself he fling Above the streamful top of the surrounded heap.

The Falcon and the Dove sit there together, And th 'one of them doth prune the others feather.

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part; Nay, I have done, you get no more of me, And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.

All transitory titles I detest; a virtuous life I mean to boast alone. Our birth's our sires'; our virtues be our own.

When Time shall turne those Amber Lockes to Gray.