Look, how the flower which ling'ringly doth fade, The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green, As high as it did raise, bows low the head: Right so the pleasures of my life being dead, Or in their contraries but only seen, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been. As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the night By darkness would imprison on his way, Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright, Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day; Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, And twice it is not given thee to be born. II. The weary mariner so fast not flies A howling tempest, harbour to attain; Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise, So fast to fold, to save his bleating train, As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain, Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize, And sanctuary seek, free to remain From wounds of abject times, and Envy's eyes. To me this world did once seem sweet and fair, While senses' light mind's prospective kept blind, Now, like imagined landscape in the air, And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find: Or if aught here is had that praise should have, It is a life obscure, and silent grave. III. The last and greatest herald of heaven's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he more harmless found than man, and mild; His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled; There burst he forth; 'All ye whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!' Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their flinty caves, 'Repent, repent!' IV. Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past or coming, void of care, Well-pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers: To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays. V.