Cogitabo pro peccato meo.

IN what darke silent grove
Profan'd by no unholy love.
Where witty melancholy nere
Did carve the trees or wound the ayre,
Shall I religious leasure winne
To weepe away my sinne?

How fondly have I spent
My youthes unvalued treasure, lent
To traffique for Coelestiall joyes?
My unripe yeares pursuing toyes;
Iudging things best that were most gay▪
Fled unobserv'd away.

Growne elder I admired
Our Poets as from heaven inspired
VVhat Obeliskes decreed I fit
For spencers Art, and Sydnyes wit?
But waxing sober soone I found▪
Fame but an Idle sound.

Then I my blood obey'd
And each bright face an Idoll made:
Verse in an humble Sacrifice,
I offer'd to my Mistresse eyes.
But I no sooner grace did win
But met the devill within.

But growne more polliticke
I tooke account of each state tricke:
Observ'd each motion, judg'd him wise,
VVho had a conscience fit to rise.
VVhom soone I found but forme and rule
And the more serious foole.

But now my soule prepare
To ponder what and where we are
How fraile is life, how vaine a breath▪
Opinion, how uncertaine death:
How onely a poore stone shall beare
VVitnesse that once we were.

How a shrill. Trumpet shall
Vs to the barre as traytors call.
Then shall we see too late that pride
Hath hope with flattery bely'd
And that the mighty in command
Pale Cowards there must stand.