Thou Art Sad; Get Thee A Wife,

Opinion Crowns With An Imperial Voice.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

Beggar That I Am, I Am Even Poor In Thanks

In Love The Heavens Themselves Do Guide The State; Money Buys Lands, And Wives Are Sold By Fate.

Alas, That Love, Whose View Is Muffled Still, Should Without Eyes See Pathways To His Will!