Which her triumphs did uphold,
And every moving beauty leaves her
Alas! my dimber dell's grown old.

III

There was a time no cull could toute her, [4]
But was sure to be undone:
Nor could th' uprightman live without her, [5]
She triumph'd over every one.
But conquering time does now deceive her,
Which her sporting us'd t' uphold,
All her am'rous dambers leave her,
For, alas! the dell's grown old.

IV

All thy comfort, dimber dell,
Is, now, since thou hast lost thy prime,
That every cull can witness well,
Thou hast not misus'd thy time.
There's not a prig or palliard living,
Who has not been thy slave inroll'd.
Then cheer thy mind, and cease thy grieving;
Thou'st had thy time, tho' now grown old.

[1: pretty wench]
[2: Notes]
[3: eyes]
[4: man; look at]