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All things subjected are to fate; Whom this morn sees most fortunate, The evening sees in poor estate.

The saints'-bell calls, and, Julia, I must read The proper lessons for the saints now dead: To grace which service, Julia, there shall be One holy collect said or sung for thee. Dead when thou art, dear Julia, thou shalt have A trentall sung by virgins o'er thy grave: Meantime we two will sing the dirge of these, Who dead, deserve our best remembrances. Trentall, a service for the dead.

I do love I know not what, Sometimes this and sometimes that; All conditions I aim at. But, as luckless, I have yet Many shrewd disasters met To gain her whom I would get. Therefore now I'll love no more As I've doted heretofore: He who must be, shall be poor.