DIE not before thy day, poor man condemned, But lift thy low looks from the humble earth, Kiss not despair, and see sweet hope contemned: The hag hath no delight, but moan for mirth, Fie, poor fondling, be thou willing To preserve thyself from killing: Hope thy keeper glad to free thee Bids thee go, and will not see thee Hie thee quickly from thy wrong— So she ends her willing song. |