Hence, all you vain delights,As short as are the nightsWherein you spend your folly!There's naught in this life sweetBut only melancholy;O sweetest melancholy! The Nice Valor (1647)
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,Sorrow calls no time that's gone;Violets plucked, the sweetest rainMakes not fresh nor grow again. The Queen of Corinth (1647)