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What though the heaven be lowering now, And look with a contracted brow? We shall discover, by-and-by, A repurgation of the sky; And when those clouds away are driven, Then will appear a cheerful heaven.

I held Love's head while it did ache; But so it chanc'd to be, The cruel pain did his forsake, And forthwith came to me.

Ay me! how shall my grief be still'd? Or where else shall we find One like to me, who must be kill'd For being too-too kind?

Next is your lot, fair, to be number'd one, Here, in my book's canonisation: Late you come in; but you a saint shall be, In chief, in this poetic liturgy.