They'll come into the drowsy fields

Of Lethe, which such virtue yields,

That, if what poets sing be true,

The streams all sorrow can subdue.

Here, on a silent, shady green,

The souls of lovers oft are seen,

Who, in their life's unhappy space,

Were murder'd by some perjur'd face.

All these th' enchanted streams frequent,

To drown their cares, and discontent,

That th' inconstant, cruel sex

Might not in death their spirits vex.

And here our souls, big with delight

Of their new state, will cease their flight:

And now the last thoughts will appear,

[7]

They'll have of us, or any here;

But on those flow'ry banks will stay,

And drink all sense and cares away.

So they that did of these discuss,

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