He who, being the whole ball
Of day on earth, lends it to all;
When seeking to ecclipse his right,
Blinded we stand in our owne light.
XIII.
And now an universall mist
Of error is spread or'e each breast,
With such a fury edg'd as is
Not found in th' inwards of th' abysse.
XIV.
Oh, from thy glorious starry waine
Dispense on me one sacred beame,
To light me where I soone may see
How to serve you, and you trust me!
<25.1> This was written, perhaps, during the poet's confinement
in Peterhouse, to which he was committed a prisoner on his return
from abroad in 1648. At the date of its composition, there can be
little doubt, from expressions in stanzas vi. and xii. that the
fortunes of Charles I. were at their lowest ebb, and it may be
assigned without much risk of error to the end of 1648.
<25.2> "The publick faith? why 'tis a word of kin,
A nephew that dares COZEN any sin;
A term of art, great BEHOMOTH'S younger brother,
Old MACHAVIEL and half a thousand other;
Which, when subscrib'd, writes LEGION, names on truss,
ABADDON, BELZEBUB, and INCUBUS."
Cleaveland's POEMS, ed. 1669, p. 91.
LUCASTA'S FANNE, WITH A LOOKING-GLASSE IN IT.<26.1>
I.
Eastrich!<26.2> thou featherd foole, and easie prey,
That larger sailes to thy broad vessell needst;
Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day,
Then on thy iron messe at supper feedst.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96