(untitled)

THe weary Mariner so far not flies
An howling Tempest, Harbour to attaine,
Nor Shepheard hasts (when frayes of Wolves arise
So fast to Fold to save his bleating traine,
As I (wing'd with Contempt and just Disdaine)
Now flie the World, and what it most doth prize,
And Sanctuary seek free to remaine
From wounds of abject Times, and Envies eyes;
To me this World did once seem sweet and faire,
While Senses light, Minds Perspective kept blind;
Now like imagin'd Landskip in the Aire,
And weeping Raine-bows her best Joyes I find:
Or if ought here is had that praise should have,
It is an obscure Life, and silent Grave.