XXXI.

Ah wretch! what bootes thee to cast back thy eyes, Where dawning hope no beame of comfort showes? While the reflection of thy forepast joyes, Renders thee double to thy present woes: Rather make up to thy new miseries, And meet the mischiefe that upon thee growes. If Hell must mourne, Heav'n sure shall sympathize, What force cannot effect, fraud shall devise.