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 On his face, still as he bled

For each drop a tear she shed,

Which she kiss'd or wip'd away,

Else had drown'd him where he lay.

Fair Proserpina (quoth she)

Shall not have thee yet from me;

Nor my soul to fly begin

While my lips can keep it in.

Here she clos'd again. And some

Say Apollo would have come

To have cur'd his wounded limb,

But that she had smothered him.

nymphs, be not refusing.

Love's neglect is time's abusing,

They and beauty are but lent you;

Take the one and keep the other:

Love keeps fresh what age doth smother;

Beauty gone you will repent you.

'Twill be said when ye have proved,

Never swains more truly loved:

Oh then fly all nice behaviour!

Pity fain would (as her duty)

Be attending still on Beauty,

Let her not be out of favour.

is every piping lad

That the fields are not yclad

With their milk-white sheep?