For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed light, And finds no comfort in the sun, but says "When night comes I shall get a little rest.” Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end. 'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond ; Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Where decent reverence well had kept her mute, Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought down, By her enormous fablings and mad lies, With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars moved From damned spirits, and the torturing cries Of men, his breth'ren, fashioned of the earth, As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, In chains and savage torments to repent unheard In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, |