Why do outrageous Fates, which dimm'd thy sight,
Let me see hateful light?
They without me made death thee surprise,
Tyrants (no doubt) that they might kill me twice.
"O grief! and could one day
Have force such excellence to take away?
Could a swift-flying moment, ah! deface
Those matchless gifts, that grace,
Which art and nature had in thee combin'd
To make thy body paragon thy mind?
Hath all pass'd like a cloud,
And doth eternal silence now them shroud?
Is that, so much admir'd, now nought but dust,
Of which a stone hath trust?
O change! O cruel change! thou to our sight
Show'st the Fates' rigour equal to their might!
"When thou from Earth didst pass,
Sweet nymph, perfection's mirror broken was,
And this of late so glorious world of ours,
Like the meadows without flowers,
Or ring of a rich gem which blind appear'd,
Or starless night, or Cynthia nothing clear'd.
Love when he saw thee die
Entomb'd him in the lid of either eye,
And left his torch within thy sacred urn,
There for a lamp to burn:
Worth, honour, pleasure, with thy life expir'd,
Death, since grown sweet, begins to be desir'd.
"Whilst thou to us wert given,
The Earth her Venus had as well as Heaven:
Nay, and her suns, which burnt as many hearts,
As he the eastern parts;
Bright suns, which, forc'd to leave these hemispheres,
Benighted set into a sea of tears.
Ah! Death, who shall thee flee,
Since the most mighty are o'rethrown by thee?
Thou spar'st the crow, the nightingale dost kill,
And triumph'st at thy will:
But give thou cannot such another blow,
Because Earth cannot such another show,
"O bitter sweets of love!
How better is 't at all you not to prove,
Than when we do your pleasures most possess
To find them thus made less!
O! that the cause which doth consume our joy
Would the remembrance of it too destroy!
What doth this life bestow,
But flow'rs on thorns which grow?
Which though they sometimes blandish soft delight,
Yet afterwards us smite;
And if the rising Sun them fair doth see,
That planet setting doth behold them die.
"This world is made a Hell,
Depriv'd of all that in it did excel.
O Pan! O Pan! winter is fall'n in May,
Turn'd is to night our day.
Forsake thy pipe, a sceptre take to thee,
Thy locks disgarland, thou black Jove shalt be.
The flocks do leave the meads,
And, loathing three-leav'd grass, hold up their heads;
The streams not glide now with a gentle roar,
Nor birds sing as before;
Hills stand with clouds like mourners veil'd in black,
And owls upon our roofs foretel our wreck.
"That Zephyr every year
So soon was heard to sigh in forests here,
It was for her, that, wrapt in gowns of green,
Meads were so early seen:
That in the saddest months oft sang the mearls,
It was for her: for her trees dropt forth pearls.
That proud and stately courts
Did envy these our shades and calm resorts,
It was for her and she is gone, O woe!
Woods cut again do grow,
Bud doth the rose, and daisy, winter done,
But we once dead do no more see the Sun.
"Whose name shall now make ring
The echoes? of whom shall the nymphets sing?
Whose heavenly voice, whose soul-invading strains,
Shall fill with joy the plains?
What hair, what eyes, can make the morn in east
Weep that a fairer riseth in the west?
Fair Sun, post still away,
No musick here is left thy course to stay.
Sweet Hybla swarms, with wormwood fill your bow'ts,
Gone is the flower of flow'rs:
Blush no more rose, nor lily pale remain,
Dead is that beauty which yours late did stain.
"Ah me! to wail my plight
Why have not I as many eyes as night;
Or as that shepherd which Jove's love did keep,
That I still, still may weep?
But though I had, my tears unto my cross
Were not yet equal, nor grief to my loss.
Yet of you briny show'rs
Which I here pour, may spring as many flow'rs,
As come of those which fell from Helen's eyes;
And when ye do arise,
May every leaf in sable letters bear
The doleful cause for which ye spring up here."
THE beauty and the life
Of life's and beauty's fairest paragon,
O tears! O grief! hung at a feeble thread,
To which pale Atropos had set her knife.
The soul with many a groan
Had left each outward part,
And now did take his last leave of the heart;
Nought else did want save death for to be dead:
When the sad company about her bed
Seeing death invade her lips, her cheeks, her eyes,
Cried "Ah! and can death enter paradise?"
O! IT is not to me, bright lamp of day,
That in the east thou show'st thy golden face;
O! it is not to me thou leav'st that sea,
And in those azure lists beginn'st thy race.
Thou shin'st not to the dead in any place;
And I dead from this world am past away,
Or if I seem (a shadow) yet to stay,
It is a while but to bewail my case.
My mirth is lost, my comforts are dismay'd,
And unto sad mishaps their place do yield;
My knowledge represents a bloody field,
Where I my hopes and helps see prostrate laid.
So plaintful is life's course which I have run,
That I do wish it never had begun.
DEAR Night, the ease of care,
Untroubled seat of peace,
Time's eldest child, which oft the blind do see,
On this our hemisphere
What makes thee now so sadly dark to be? Com'st thou in funeral pomp her grave to grace? Or do those stars which should thy horrour clear, n Jove's high hall advise,
n what part of the skies,
With them, or Cynthia she shall appear?
Dr, ah, alas! because those matchless eyes,
Which shone so fair, below thou dost not find,
triv'st thou to make all others' eyes look blind?
NCE it hath pleas'd that first and supreme Fair To take that beauty to himself again, Which in this world of sense not to remain, ut to amaze was sent, and home repair; he love which to that beauty I did bear, ade pure of mortal spots which did it stain, nd endless, which even death cannot impair, place on him who will it not disdain.
shining eyes, no locks of curling gold, blushing roses on a virgin face,
outward show, no, nor no inward grace,
all power have my thoughts henceforth to hold: ove here on Earth huge storms of care doth toss, at plac'd above exempted is from loss.
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.com.ua/books/content?id=q7M5AAAAIAAJ&hl=uk&output=html_text&pg=PA659&img=1&zoom=3&q=editions:OXFORD591072550&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U3-aBofW953YLurvVi5P7j5fskFYA&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=112,877,173,24)
autumn was, and on our hemisphere
Er Ericine began bright to appear,
ght westward did her gemmy world decline, d hide her lights, that greater light might shine: e crested bird had given alarum twice lazy mortals to unlock their eyes,
owl had left to 'plain, and from each thorn e wing'd musicians did salute the morn, no (while she dress'd her locks in Ganges' streams) open wide the crystal port of dreams:
en I, whose eyes no drowsy night could close, sleep's soft arms did quietly repose,
, for that Heavens to die did me deny, th's image kissed, and as dead did lie. y as dead, but scarce charm'd were my cares, slaked scarce my sighs, scarce dried my tears, p scarce the ugly figures of the day with his sable pencil put away, left me in a still and calmy mood, en by my bed methought a virgin stood, Ergin in the blooming of her prime, ach rare beauty measur'd be by time. head a garland wore of opals bright, ut her flow'd a gown like purest light; amber locks gave umbrage to her face, ere modesty high majesty did grace; eyes such beams sent forth, that but with pain weaker sight their sparklings could sustain. Feigned deity which haunts the woods
e to her, nor syren of the floods: is the golden planet of the year,
en blushing in the east he doth appear.
Her grace did beauty, voice yet grace did pass,
Which thus through pearls and rubies broken was.
"How long wilt thou," said she," estrang'd from
Paint shadows to thyself of false annoy; [joy,
How long thy mind with horrid shapes affright,
And in imaginary evils delight;
Esteem that loss which (well when view'd) is gain,
Or if a loss, yet not a loss to plain?
O leave thy plaintful soul more to molest,
And think that woe when shortest then is best.
If she for whom thou thus dost deaf the sky
Be dead, what then? was she not born to die?
Was she not mortal born? If thou dost grieve
That times should be in which she should not live,
Ere e'er she was weep that day's wheel was roll'd,
Weep that she liv'd not in the age of gold.
For that she was not then thou may'st deplore,
As well as that she now can be no more.
If only she had died, thou sure hadst cause
To blame the Fates, and their too iron laws.
But look how many millions her advance,
What numbers with her enter in this dance, [stay,
With those which are to come: shall Heavens them
And th' universe dissolve thee to obey?
As birth, death, which so much thee doth appal,
A piece is of the life of this great all.
Strong cities die, die do high palmy reigns,
And fondling thou thus to be us'd complains!
"If she be dead, then she of loathsome days
Hath pass'd the line whose length but loss bewrays,
Then she hath left this filthy stage of care,
Where pleasure seldom, woe doth still repair.
For all the pleasures which it doth contain
Not countervail the smallest minute's pain.
And tell me, thou who dost so much admire
This little vapour, this poor spark of fire,
Which life is call'd, what doth it thee bequeath
But some few years which birth draws out to death?
Which if thou parallel with lustres run,
Or those whose courses are but now begun,
In days' great numbers they shall less appear,
Than with the sea when matched is a tear.
But why should'st thou here longer wish to be?
One year doth serve all Nature's pomp to see.
Nay, even one day, and night: this Moon, that Sun,
Those lesser fires about this round which run,
Be but the same which under Saturn's reign
Did the serpenting seasons interchain.
How oft doth life grow less by living long?
And what excelleth but what dieth young?
For age, which all abhor, yet would embrace,
Doth make the mind as wrinkled as the face.
Then leave laments, and think thou didst not live
Laws to that first eternal Cause to give;
But to obey those laws which he hath given,
And bow unto the just decrees of Heaven,
Which cannot err, whatever foggy mists
Do blind men in these sublunary lists.
But what if she for whom thou spread'st those groans,
And wastes thy life's dear torch in ruthful moans,
She for whose sake thou hat'st the joyful light,
Courts solitary shades and irksome night,
Doth live? Ah! (if thou canst) through tears, a
Lift thy dimm'd lights, and look upon this face;
Look if those eyes which, fool! thou didst adore,
Shine not more bright than they were wont before.
Look if those roses death could aught impair,
Those roses which thou once saidst were so fair;
And if these locks have lost aught of that gold,
Which once they had when thou them didst behold,
I live, and happy live, but thou art dead,
And still shalt be till thou be like tne made.
Alas! while we are wrapt in gowns of earth,
And, blind, here suck the air of woe beneath;
Each thing in sense's balances we weigh,
And but with toil and pain the truth descry.
"Above this vast and admirable frame,
This temple visible, which world we name,
Within whose walls so many lamps do burn,
So many arches with cross motions turn,
Where th' elemental brothers nurse their strife,
And by intestine wars maintain their life;
There is a world, a world of perfect bliss,
Pure, immaterial, as brighter far from this,
As that high circle which the rest enspheres
Is from this dull, ignoble vale of tears:
A world where all is found, that here is found,
But further discrepant than Heaven and ground:
It hath an earth, as hath this world of yours,
With creatures peopled, and adorn'd with flow'rs
It hath a sea, like sapphire girdle cast,
Which decks of the harmonious shores the waste;
It hath pure fire, it hath delicious air,
Moon, Sun, and stars, Heavens wonderfully fair:
Flow'rs never there do fade, trees grow not old,
No creature dieth there through heat or cold;
Sea there not tossed is, nor air made black,
Fire doth not greedy feed on others' wrack:
There Heavens be not constrain'd about to range,
For this world hath no need of any change:
Minutes mount not to hours, nor hours to days,
Days make no months, but ever-blooming Mays.
"Here I remain, and hitherward do tend
All who their span of days in virtue spend:
Whatever pleasant this low place contains,
Is but a glance of what above remains.
Those who (perchance) think there can nothing be
Beyond this wide expansion which they see,
And that nought else mounts stars' circumference,
For that nought else is subject to their sense,
Feel such a case, as one whom some abisme
In the deep ocean kept had all his time:
Who, born and nourish'd there, cannot believe
That elsewhere aught without those waves can live:
Cannot believe that there be temples, tow'rs,
Which go beyond his caves and dampish bow'rs:
Or there be other people, manners, laws,
Than what he finds within the churlish waves:
That sweeter flow'rs do spring than grow on rocks,
Or beasts there are excel the scaly flocks:
That other elements are to be found,
Than is the water and this ball of ground.
But think that man from this abisme being brought,
Did see what curious Nature here hath wrought,
Did view the meads, the tall and shady woods,
And mark'd the hills, and the clear rolling floods;
And all the beasts which Nature forth doth bring,
The feather'd troops that fly and sweetly sing:
Observ'd the palaces, and cities fair,
Men's fashion of life, the fire, the air,
The brightness of the Sun that dims his sight,
The Moon, and splendours of the painted night:
What sudden rapture would his mind surprise!
How would he his late-dear resort despise!
How would he muse how foolish he had been,
To think all nothing but what there was seen!
Why do we get this high and vast desire,
Unto immortal things still to aspire?
Why doth our mind extend it beyond time,
And to that highest happiness even climb?
For we are more than what to sense we seem,
And more than dust us worldlings do esteem;
We be not made for Earth though here we come,
More than the embryo for the mother's womb:
It weeps to be made free, and we complain
To leave this loathsome gaol of care and pain.
"But thou, who vulgar footsteps dost not trace,
Learn to rouse up thy mind to view this place,
And what earth-creeping mortals most affect,
If not at all to scorn, yet to neglect:
Seek not vain shadows, which when once obtain'd
Are better lost than with such travel gain'd.
Think that on Earth what worldlings greatness call,
Is but a glorious title to live thrall:
That sceptres, diadems, and chairs of state,
Not in themselves, but to small minds are great:
That those who loftiest mount do hardest light,
And deepest falls be from the highest height:
That fame an echo is, and all renown
Like to a blasted rose, ere night falls down:
And though it something were, think how this round
Is but a little point which doth it bound.
O leave that love which reacheth but to dust,
And in that love eternal only trust,
And beauty, which when once it is possest
Can only fill the soul, and make it blest.
Pale envy, jealous emulations, fears,
Sighs, plaints, remorse, here have no place, nor tears:
False joys, vain hopes, here be not, hate nor wrath,
What ends all love here most augments it, death.
If such force had the dim glance of an eye,
Which but some few days afterwards did de,
That it could make thee leave all other things,
And like a taper-fly there burn thy wings;
And if a voice, of late which could but wail,
Such power had, as through ears thy soul to steal;
If once thou on that poorly fair couldst gaze,
What flames of love would this within thee raise?
In what a musing maze would it thee bring,
To hear but once that choir celestial sing?
The fairest shapes on which thy love did seize,
Which erst did breed delight, then would displease;
But discords hoarse were Earth's enticing sounds,
All music but a noise, which sense confoundis.
This great and burning glass which clears all eyes,
And musters with such glory in the skies;
That silver star, which with her purer light
Makes day oft envy the eye-pleasing night;
Those golden letters which so brightly shine
In Heaven's great volume gorgeously divine;
All wonders in the sea, the earth, the air,
Be but dark pictures of that sov’reign fair,
And tongues, which still thus cry into your ear
(Could ye amidst world's cataracts them hear:)
From fading things, fond men, lift your desire,
And in our beauty, his us made admire:
If we seem fair, O think how fair is he,
Of whose great fairness, shadows, steps we be
No shadow can compare unto the face,
No step with that dear foot which did it trace;
Your souls immortal are, then place them hence,
And do not drown them in the mist of sense:
Do not, O do not by false pleasure's might
Deprive them of that true and sole delight.
That happiness ye seek is not below,
Earth's sweetest joy is but disguised woe'."
Here did she pause, and with a mild aspect
Did towards me those lamping twins direct.
'The wonted rays I knew, and thrice essay'd
To answer make, thrice fault'ring tongue it stay'
And while upon that face I fed my sight, Methought she vanish'd up to Titan's light; Who gilding with his rays each hill and plain, Seem'd to have brought the golden world again.
TRIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of bays,
Sky-threat'ning arches, the rewards of worth,
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious lays,
Which men divine unto the world set forth:
States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise,
From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange,
Gigantic frames held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days.
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 floating world beneath the Moon:
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 panted on the ocean streams,
Too long refreshment sought amidst the fire,
Pursu'd those joys which to my soul are blames.
Ah when I had what most I did admire,
And seen of life's delights the last extremes,
I found all but a rose hedg'd with a brier,
A nought, a thought, a masquerade of dreams.
Henceforth on thee, my only good, I'll think,
For only thou canst grant what I do crave:
Thy nail my pen shall be; thy blood mine ink;
Thy winding-sheet my paper; study, grave:
Aud till my soul forth of this body flee,
No hope I'll have, but only only thee.
To spread the azure canopy of Heaven,
And spangle it all with sparks of burning gold.
To place this ponderous 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 wisdom's nought, nought to thy might:
But that thou should'st, thy glory laid aside,
Come basely in mortality to bide,
And die for those deserv'd an endless night:
A wonder is so far above our wit,
That angels stand amaz'd to think on it.
WHAT hapless hap had I for to be born a these unhappy times, and dying days of this now doting world, when good decays, ove's quite extinct, and virtue's held a scorn!
When such are only priz'd by wretched ways
Who with a golden fleece them can adorn!
When avarice and lust are counted praise,
And bravest minds live, orphan-like, forlorn!
Why was not I born 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 Earth's stately stage?
To have been then, O Heaven! 't had been my bliss,
But bless me now, and take me soon from this.
PORTRAIT OF THE COUNTESS OF PERTH.
THE goddess that in Amathus doth reign,
With silver trammels, and sapphire-colour'd eyes,
When naked from her mother's crystal plain,
She first appear'd unto the wond'ring skies:
Or when the golden apple to obtain,
Her blushing snow amazed Ida's trees,
Did never look in half so fair a guise,
As she here drawn all other ages stain.
O God what beauties to inflame the soul,
And hold the hardest hearts in chains of gold!
Fair locks, sweet face, Love's stately capitol,
Pure neck which doth that heavenly frame uphold,
If Virtue would to mortal eyes appear,
To ravish sense she would your beauty wear.
Ir Heaven, the stars, and Nature did her grace
With all perfections found the Moon above,
And what excelleth in this lower place,
Found place in her to breed a world of love:
If angels' gleams shine on her fairest face, [prove,
Which makes Heaven's joy, on Earth, the gazer
And her bright eyes (the orbs which beauty move)
As Phœbus dazzle in his glorious race.
What pencil paint, what colour to the sight
So sweet a shape can show? the blushing morn,
The red must lend, the milky way the white,
And night the stars which her rich crown adorn;
To draw her right then, and make all agree,
The Heaven the table, Zeuxis Jove must be.
ON THAT SAME DRAWN WITH A PENCIL.
WHEN with brave art the curious painter drew
This heavenly shape, the hand why made he bear
With golden veins that flow'r of purple hue,
Which follows on the planet of the year?
Was it to show how in our hemisphere,
Like him she shines, nay that effects more true
Of power, and wonder do in her appear,
While he but flow'rs, and she doth minds subdue.
Or would he else to virtue's glorious light
Her constant course make known, or is 't that he
Doth parallel her bliss with Clitia's plight:
Right so, and thus, he reading in her eye
Some lover's end, to grace what he did grave,
For Cypress tree, this mourning flow'r her gave,
My thoughts hold mortal strife,
I do detest my life,
And with lamenting cries,
Peace to my soul to bring,
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize: But he grim grinning king,
Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, Late having deckt with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
UPON THE VICTORIOUS KING OF SWEDEN, GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.
LIKE a cold fatal sweat which ushers death,
My thoughts hang on me; and by labouring breath,
Stopt up with sighs, my fancy big with woes
Feels two twin mountains struggle in her throws,
Of boundless sorrow th' one, th' other of sin;
For less let no man call it, to begin
Where honour ends in great Gustavus' flame,
That still burnt out and wasted to a name,
Does barely live with us; and when the stuff
Which fed it fails, the taper turns to snuff:
With this poor snuff, this airy shadow, we
Of fame and honour must contented be,
Since from the vain grasp of our wishes fled
Their glorious substances, now he is dead.
Speak it again, and louder, louder yet,
Else whilst we hear the sound, we shall forget
What it delivers; let hoarse Rumour cry
Till she so many echoes multiply,
That may like numerous witnesses confute
Our unbelieving souls, that would dispute
And doubt this truth for ever, this one way
Is left our incredulity to sway,
T' awaken our deaf sense, and make our ears
As open and dilated as our tears;
That we may feel the blow, and feeling grieve
At what we would not fain, but must believe,
And in that horrid faith behold the world
From her proud height of expectation burl'd;
Stooping with him, as if she strove to have
No lower centre now, than Sweden's grave.
O! could not all the purchas'd victories
Like to thy fame thy flesh immortalize?
Were not thy virtue nor thy valour charms
To guard thy body from those outward harms
Which could not reach thy soul? Could not thy spirit
Lend something which thy frailty could inherit,
From thy diviner part, that death nor heat,
Nor envy's bullets e'er could penetrate?
Could not thy early trophies in stern fight
Turn from the Pole, the Dane, the Muscovite?
Which were thy triumphs, seeds as pledges sown,
That when thy honour's harvest was ripe grown,
"With full plum'd wing thou faulcon-like could fly,
And cuff the eagle in the German sky,
Forcing his iron beak, and feathers feel
They were not proof 'gainst thy victorious steel.
Could not all these protect thee, or prevail
To fright that coward Death, who oft grew pale
To look thee and thy battles in the face?
Alas! they could not; Destiny gives place
To none: nor is it seen that princes' lives
Can saved be by their prerogatives:
No more was thine; who, clos'd in thy cold lead,
Dost from thyself a mournful lecture read
Of man's short-dated glory. Learn, you kings,
You are, like him, but penetrable things;
Though you from demi-gods derive your birth,
You are at best but honourable earth:
And howe'er sifted from that coarser bran
Which doth compound, and knead the common man,
Nothing immortal, or from earth refin'd
About you, but your office and your mind.
Hear then, break your false glasses, which present
You greater than your Maker ever meant.
Make truth your mirror now, since you find all
That flatter you, confuted by his fall.
Yet since it was decreed thy life's bright sam
Must be eclips'd ere thy full course was run,
Be proud thou didst in thy black obsequies
With greater glory set than others rise:
For in thy death, as life, thou boldest one
Most just and regular proportion.
Look how the circles drawn by compass meet
Indivisibly, joined head to feet;
And by continued points which them unite
Grow at once circular, and infinite:
So did thy fate and honour both contend
To match thy brave beginning with thine end.
Therefore thou hadst, instead of passing-belis,
The drums and cannons' thunder for thy knells;
And in the field thou didst triumphing die,
Closing thy eyelids with a victory;
That so by thousands that there lost their breath,
King-like thou might'st be waited on in death.
Liv'd Plutarch now, and would of Cæsar tell,
He could make none but thee his parallel,
Whose tide of glory, swelling to the brim,
Needs borrow no addition from him:
When did great Julius in any clime
Achieve so much, and in so short a time?
Or if he did, yet shalt thou in that land
Single for him, and unexampled stand.
When o'er the Germans first his eagle tow'r'd,
What saw the legions which on them be pour 1,
But massy bodies made their swords to try,
Subjects, not for his fight, but slavery?
In that so vast expanded piece of ground
(Now Sweden's theatre and scorn) he found
Nothing worth Cæsar's valour, or his fear,
No conqu❜ring army, nor a Tilly there,
Whose strength, nor wiles, nor practice in the
Might the fierce torrent of his triumphs bar;
But that thy winged sword twice made him ye
Both from his trenches beat, and from the fic
Besides, the Roman thought he had done muca,
Did he the banks of Rhenus only touch:
But though his march was bounded by the RhY.
Not Oder nor the Danube thee confine.
And but thy frailty did thy fame prevent,
Thou hadst thy conquest stretch'd to such exter
Thou might'st Vienna reach, and after Spain;
From Mulda to the Baltic ocean.
But Death hath spann'd thee, nor must we disi What here thou hadst to finish thy design; Or who shall thee succeed as champion For liberty, and for religion.
Thy task is done as in a watch the spring, Wound to the height, relaxes with the string; So thy steel nerves of conquest, from their ste? Ascent declin'd, lie slackt in thy last sleep.
|