TRiumphing, Chariots, Statues, Crowns of Bayes,
Skie-threatning Arches, the rewards of worth,
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious layes,
Which men divine unto the World set forth:
States which Ambitious Minds, in bloud, do raise,
From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange,
Gigantall Frames held wonders rarely strange,
Like Spiders webs are made the sport of Daies.
Nothing is constant but in constant change,
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other Fashion doth it range;
Thus goes the floting World beneath the Moone:
Wherefore my Mind above Time, Motion, Place,
Rise up, and steps unknown to Nature trace.
TOo long I followed have my fond Desire,
And too long painted on the Ocean Streames,
Too long refreshment sought amidst the fire,
Pursu'd those joyes which to my Soule are Blames.
Ah when I had what most I did admire,
And seen of Lifes Delights the last extreames,
I found all but a Rose hedg'd with a Bryer,
A Nought, a Thought, a Mascarade of Dreames.
Henceforth on Thee, my only Good, I'll thinke,
For only thou canst grant what I do crave;
Thy Naile my Pen shall be, thy Bloud mine Inke,
Thy Winding-sheet my Paper, Studie Grave:
And till my Soule forth of this body flie,
No Hope I'll have but only only thee.
TO spread the Azure Canopy of Heaven,
And spangle it all with Sparkes of burning Gold,
To place this pondrous Globe of Earth so even,
That it should all and nought should it uphold;
With motions strange t' indue the Planets seven,
And Jove to make so mild, and Mars so bold,
To temper what is moist, dry, hot, and cold,
Of all their Jars that sweet Accords are given.
Lord to thy Wisdome's nought, nought to thy Might,
But that thou shouldst, thy Glory laid aside,
Come basely in Mortality to bide,
And die for those deserv'd an endlesse night;
A Wonder is so far above our wit,
That Angels stand amaz'd to thinke on it.
WHat haplesse Hap had I for to be borne
In these unhappy Times, and dying Daies
Of this now doting World, when Good decayes,
Love's quite extinct, and Vertue's held a scorne!
When such are only pris'd by wretched waies,
Who with a golden Fleece them can adorne;
When Avarice and Lust are counted praise,
And bravest Minds live Orphane-like forlorne!
Why was not I borne in that golden Age,
When Gold yet was not known? and those black Arts
By which Base Worldlings vilely play their parts,
With Horrid Acts staining Earths stately Stage?
To have been then, O heaven, 't had been my bliss,
But blesse me now, and take me soone from this.
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