Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
From ‘The Queen of Corinth’John Fletcher (1579–1625)
W
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 wingèd dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo.