Page:The heptalogia, or, The seven against sense - a cap with seven bells (IA heptalogiaorseve00swin).pdf/29

 Gradually, not gladly! Nay, but, Meg, Is it more than the ransom (say) of a king (Take my meaning at least) that I beg?

Not so! You were ready to learn, I think, What the world said! 'He loves you too well (suppose) For such leanings! These poets, their love's mere ink— Like a flower, their flame flashes—a rosebud, blows— Then it all drops down at a wink!

'Ah, the instance! A curl of a blossomless vine The vinedresser passing it sickens to see And mutters "Much hope (under God) of His wine