Know no more the new thesis,
Indeed this plight I cannot treatise,
The art of magnificence in shadow
So far wretched and glees in meagre throw,
This I cannot spell, nor mine eyes write
Yet despair is come with and laughed right;
The art he dignifies slowly corrupts a soul,
And never, nor never, did he sheath his pole,
Lest he walks and never would laugh again,
So told the various men whose curse is gain.
So surpass God’s alternative, he ought to say,
And dare not the words he bought at bay,
How grateful is the mare the rides too fast,
So sooner he resigns in larks to distant past,
Nor woos his bark the wrinkles sharp too sad,
Nothing; nothing; tis mortal fool to deny so bad,
The nature he was; the past he was, all forgiv’n,
Not whether, so tether his heart to strings given,
To never deny, his life what once it was so grand,
Who could never relish this man he ought to brand.