On that false ground I joy'd to tread Which seemed most faire, Though every path had a new snare, And every turning still did lead, To the darke Region of the dead. But with the surfet of delight I am so tyred That now I loath what I admired, And my distasted appetite So 'bhors the meate, it hates the sight. For should we naked sinne discry Not beautified By th' ayde of wantonnesse and pride Like some mishapen birth, 'twould lye A torment to th' affrighted eye. But cloath'd in beauty and respect. Even ore the wise, How powerfull doth it tyrannize! Whose monstrous storme should they detract They famine sooner would affect. And since those shadowes which oppresse My sight begin To cleere, and show the shape of sinne, A Scorpion sooner be my guest, And warme his venome in my brest. May I before I growe so vile By sinne agen, Be throwne off as a scorne to men! May th' angry world decree, t' exile Me to some yet unpeopled Isle. Where while I struggle, and in vaine Labor to finde Some creature that shall have a minde, What justice have I to complaine If I thy inward grace retaine? My God if thou shalt not exclude Thy comfort thence: What place can seeme to troubled sence So melancholly darke and rude, To be esteem'd a solitude. Cast me upon some naked shore Where I may tracke Onely the print of some sad wracke; If thou be there, though the seas rore, I shall no gentler calme implore. Should the _Cymmerians_, whom no ray Doth ere enlight But gaine thy grace, th' have lost their night: Not sinners at high noone, but they 'Mong their blind cloudes have found the day. _Et Exultavit Humiles._ How cheerefully th' unpartiall Sunne Gilds with his beames The narrow streames Oth' Brooke which silently doth runne Without a name? And yet disdaines to lend his flame To the wide channell of the Thames? The largest mountaines barren lye And lightning feare, Though they appeare To bid defiance to the skie; Which in one houre W' have seene the opening earth devoure When in their height they proudest were. But th' humble man heaves up his head Like some rich vale Whose fruites nere faile With flowres, with corne, and vines ore-spread. Nor doth complaine Oreflowed by an ill season'd raine Or batter'd by a storme of haile. Like a tall Barke with treasure fraught He the seas cleere Doth quiet steere: But when they are t' a tempest wrought; More gallantly He spreads his saile, and doth more high By swelling of the waves, appeare.