Why to unwelcome loath'd surprises Dost leave him, having left his vices? Since these, if suffer'd, may again Lead back the living to the slain. O, change this scourge; or, if as yet None less will my transgressions fit, Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot do What I would not submit unto. FOOTNOTES: [67] The original has _throws_. THE RECOVERY. I. Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proud And previous glories gild that blushing cloud; Whose lively fires in swift projections glance From hill to hill, and by refracted chance Burnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and then Fly off in coy and winged flames again: If thou this day Hold on thy way, Know, I have got a greater light than thine; A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine. Then get thee down! then get thee down! I have a Sun now of my own. II. Those nicer livers, who without thy rays Stir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise; And wanting light--light, which no wants doth know-- To thee--weak shiner!--like blind Persians bow. But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head, From His own bright eternal eye doth shed One living ray, There thy dead day Is needless, and man to a light made free, Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see. Then get thee down! then get thee down! I have a Sun now of my own. THE NATIVITY. Written in the year 1656. Peace? and to all the world? Sure One, And He the Prince of Peace, hath none! He travels to be born, and then Is born to travel more again. Poor Galilee! thou canst not be The place for His Nativity. His restless mother's call'd away, And not deliver'd till she pay. A tax? 'tis so still! we can see The Church thrive in her misery, And, like her Head at Beth'lem, rise, When she, oppress'd with troubles, lies. Rise?--should all fall, we cannot be In more extremities than He. Great Type of passions! Come what will, Thy grief exceeds all copies still. Thou cam'st from Heav'n to Earth, that we Might go from Earth to Heav'n with Thee: And though Thou found'st no welcome here, Thou didst provide us mansions there. A stable was Thy Court, and when Men turn'd to beasts, beasts would be men: They were Thy courtiers; others none; And their poor manger was Thy throne. No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold, Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold. No rockers waited on Thy birth, No cradles stirr'd, nor songs of mirth; But her chaste lap and sacred breast, Which lodg'd Thee first, did give Thee rest.