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192 Nor think these ages that do hoarsely sing The farting tanner and familiar king, The dancing friar, tatter'd in the bush; Those monstrous lies of little Robin Rush, Tom Chipperfeild, and pretty lisping Ned, That doted on a maid of gingerbread; The flying pilchard and the frisking dace, With all the rabble of Tim Trundell's race (Bred from the dunghills and adulterous rhymes), Shall live, and thou not superlast all times. No, no; thy stars have destin'd thee to see The whole world die and turn to dust with thee. He's greedy of his life who will not fall Whenas a public ruin bears down all. The farting tanner, etc., see Note.

I do not love, nor can it be Love will in vain spend shafts on me; I did this godhead once defy, Since which I freeze, but cannot fry. Yet out, alas! the death's the same, Kill'd by a frost or by a flame.

I dislik'd but even now; Now I love I know not how. Was I idle, and that while Was I fir'd with a smile? I'll to work, or pray; and then I shall quite dislike again.