On a rock more high Than Nature’s common surface, she beholds The Mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds Its sacred mysteries. A trine within A quadrate placed, both these encompast in A perfect circle was its form; but what Its matter was, for us to wonder at, Is undiscovered left. A Tower there stands At every angle, where Time’s fatal hands The impartial Parcæ dwell; i’ the first she sees Clotho the kindest of the Destinies, From immaterial essences to cull The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool For Lachesis to spin; about her flie Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie Warm’d with their functions in, whose strength bestows That power by which man ripe for misery grows. Her next of objects was that glorious tower Where that swift-fingered Nymph that spares no hour From mortals’ service, draws the various threads Of life in several lengths; to weary beds Of age extending some, whilst others in Their infancy are broke: _some blackt in sin, Others, the favorites of Heaven, from whence Their origin, candid with innocence; Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed In sanguine pleasures_: some in glittering pride Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear Rags of deformity, but knots of care No thread was wholly free from. Next to this Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss Of dreadful Atropos, the baleful seat Of death and horrour, in each room repleat With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight Of pale grim Ghosts, those terrours of the night. To this, the last stage that the winding clew Of Life can lead mortality unto, Fear was the dreadful Porter, which let in All guests sent thither by destructive sin. It is possible that I may have written from the recollection of this passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly attribute it to Chamberlayne, a Poet to whom I am indebted for many hours of delight, and whom I one day hope to rescue from undeserved oblivion. return The Second Book