Book III, 39: On the Memory

Does thy corrected Frailty still complaine
Of thy disloyall Mem'ry? do'st retaine
Nothing that's Good? And is the better part
Of what thou hear', before it warme thy heart,
Snatcht from thy false Remembrance? Is the most
Of what th'inspired Prophets tell thee, lost
In thy unhospitable eares? And not
To be recall'd? Quite buried? Quite forgot?
Feare not: Thou hast a Chanc'lour in thy Brest,
That keeps th' Exchequer, and hoards up the least,
The poorest Summe: No, no, thou needst not feare,
There's nothing will be lost that's taken there:
Thinkst thou, that thou hast lost that piece of Gold
That's dropt into a fairer Heape, untold?
Or canst thou judge that Fier, clos'd about
With rak'd up Embers, 'cause not scene, is out?
Gold, lost in greater summes, is still thine owne;
And rak'd up Embers will, in time, be blowne
To Flames: Beleeve't the Words thine eares have lost,
Thy heart wil find, when thou shalt need them most.