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'The winds, that wanton with the Spring, Such odours as her breathing bring! But the resemblance of her eyes
Was never found beneath the skies!
'Her charming voice, who strives to hit,
His object must be higher yet!
For heaven, and earth, and all we see
Dispersed, collected, is but She!'
Amazed at this discourse, methought,
Love both ambition in me wrought;
And made me covet to engross
A wealth'would prove a public loss.
With that, I sighed! ashamed to see
Such worth in her; such want in me!
And closing both mine eyes, forbid
The world my sight; since She was hid.
OR, ANSWER OF A GOOD CONSCIENCE.
WHAT's a good conscience? ECHO, canst say! Aye!
Say then; and what 'tis, manifest!
Where is 't? I' th' understanding wholly ?
Is it then, ECHO! in my breast?
Rest! Is 't from pain, or sin; say, Whether?
If both, 'tis heaven on earth! a saint's bliss!
Is 't in our own, or others', powers?
O, then a jewel 'tis, rich and bright!
Then tell me, How shall I come by it?
If gold will buy 't; gold I'll provide!
If goid will not; what else will do it?
Is 't not enough, that I believe well?
Does 't not consist in good affections?
To get it, are good works the best way?
How long must this be my endeavour?
UPON HIS LOSING HIS WAY IN A MIST. I THOUGHT, I could not go astray,
So perfectly I knew the way.
Yet, in a mist, I missed it, and
Erred now on this, now on that hand:
And till the fog was by the sun
Dispelled, I in a maze did run,
And ride; as if 'twere fairy ground,
Or that the PUCK had led me round.
So, whiles I want a heavenly light,
The day's to me as dark as night!
Which way I go, I cannot tell;
Whether it be towards Heaven, or Hell!
But this I know, That there is odds
I tread the Devil's track; not GOD's!
For GOD's way straight and narrow is;
The Devil's, broad and hard to miss!
O, Sun of Righteousness, then shine,
And soon disperse this mist of mine!
Lighten the darkness of my mind,
That I the way to Heaven may find!
UPON A PASSING BELL.
HARK, how the Passing Bell
Rings out thy neighbour's knell !
And thou, for want of wit
Or grace, ne'er think'st on it;
Because thou yet art well!
Fool! In two days, or three,
The same may ring for thee!
For Death's impartial dart
Will surely hit thy heart!
He will not take a fee!
Since then, he will not spare;
See thou thyself prepare
Against that dreadful day,
When thou shalt turn to clay!
This Bell bids thee, Beware!
Then Rashness strikes the ball away,
And there is oversight.
'A bandy ho!' the people cry;
And so the ball takes flight.
Now, at the length, Good-Liking proves
Content to be their gain.
Thus, in the Tennis Court, Love is
A pleasure mixed with pain.
CARE! Care! go, pack! thou art no mate for me!
Thy thorny thoughts my heart, to death doth wound!
Thou mak'st the Fair seem like a blasted tree!
Thou bring'st ripe years and hoary age to th' ground!
Which makes me sing, to solace my annoy,
'Care! Care! adieu! My heart doth hope for Joy!'
Care! Care! adieu! Thou rival of Delight,
Return unto the cave of dead Despair!
Thou art no guest to harbour in my sprite;
Whose poisoned sighs infect the very air!
Therefore I sing, to solace my annoy, &c.
Care! Care! adieu! and welcome Pleasure now,
Thou, fruit of Joy and ease of Pleasure both,
I wear thy weed! I make a solemn vow;
Let Time, or Chance, be pleased, or be wroth!
I therefore sing, to solace my annoy, &c.