John Fletcher

Weep no more  

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that’s gone :
Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully ;
Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see.
Joys as wingŕed dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last ?
Grief is but a wound to woe ;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.

The Oxford Book of English Verse.
Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed.
Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1919. 241.


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