Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow call 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 winge'd dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no more.
John Fletcher
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