Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away.' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces

And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

Farewell, my sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort: fare thee well.

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.

As merry as the day is long.

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.