William Habington (1605–1654)

VOWS are vain. No suppliant breath

Stays the speed of swift-heel’d death.

Life with her is gone, and I

Learn but a new way to die.

See the flowers condole, and all

Wither in my funeral.

The bright lily, as if day

Parted with her, fades away.

Violets hang their heads, and lose

All their beauty. That the rose

A sad part in sorrow bears,

Witness all those dewy tears,

Which as pearl, or diamond like,

Swell upon her blushing cheek.

All things mourn; but oh, behold

How the withered marigold

Closeth up now she is gone,

Judging her the setting sun.