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 Round, round the roof does run, And, being ravish'd thus, Come, I will drink a tun To my Propertius.

Now, to Tibullus, next, This flood I drink to thee: But stay, I see a text That this presents to me.

Behold, Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn.

Trust to good verses then; They only will aspire When pyramids, as men, Are lost i' th' funeral fire.

And when all bodies meet In Lethe to be drown'd, Then only numbers sweet With endless life are crown'd.

Retorted, bound back, "retorto crine," Martial. Immensive, measureless.

Fair was the dawn, and but e'en now the skies Show'd like to cream inspir'd with strawberries, But on a sudden all was chang'd and gone That smil'd in that first sweet complexion. Then thunder-claps and lightning did conspire To tear the world, or set it all on fire. What trust to things below, whenas we see, As men, the heavens have their hypocrisy?