My thoughts hold mortal strife;
I do detest my life,
And with lamenting cries
Peace to my soul bring
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize;
_But he, grim grinning King,
Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize,
Late having deck’d with beauty’s rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
W, Drummond
