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WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that’s gone : Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. Trim thy locks, look cheerfully ; Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see. Joys as wingàed dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last ? Grief is but a wound to woe ; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe. |
Source:
The Oxford Book of English Verse.
Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed.
Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1919. 241.
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