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For punishment in war it will suffice If the chief author of the faction dies; Let but few smart, but strike a fear through all; Where the fault springs there let the judgment fall.

Ah Posthumus! our years hence fly, And leave no sound; nor piety, Or prayers, or vow Can keep the wrinkle from the brow; But we must on, As fate does lead or draw us; none, None, Posthumus, could ere decline The doom of cruel Proserpine.

The pleasing wife, the house, the ground, Must all be left, no one plant found To follow thee, Save only the curs'd cypress tree; A merry mind Looks forward, scorns what's left behind; Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may, And here enjoy our holiday.

W'ave seen the past best times, and these Will ne'er return; we see the seas