¶
SUre, there's a tye of Bodyes! and as they
Dissolve (with it,) to Clay,
Love languisheth, and memory doth rust
O'r-cast with that cold dust;
For things thus Center'd, without Beames, or Action
Nor give, nor take Contaction,
And man is such a Marygold, these fled,
That shuts, and hangs the head.
2.
Absents within the Line Conspire, and Sense
Things distant doth unite,
Herbs sleep unto the East, and some fowles thence
Watch the Returns of light;
But hearts are not so kind: false, short delights
Tell us the world is brave,
And wrap us in Imaginary flights
Wide of a faithfull grave;
Thus Lazarus was carried out of town;
For 'tis our foes chief art
By distance all good objects first to drown,
And then besiege the heart.
But I will be my own Deaths-head; and though
The flatt'rer say, I live,
Because Incertainties we cannot know
Be sure, not to believe.