by Robert Herrick

    I must
    Not trust
Here to any;
By so many:
    As one
By my losses;
    Will I
With my crosses;
    Yet still
    I will
Not be grieving,
    Since thence
    And hence
Comes relieving.
    But this
    Sweet is
In our mourning;
    Times bad
    And sad
Are a-turning:
    And he
    Whom we
See dejected,
    Next day
    We may
See erected.

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