W. DRUMMOND. 60. THE WORLD'S WAY. Tired with all these, for restful death I cry-- As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive Good attending captain Ill:-- --Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone. W. SHAKESPEARE. 61. SAINT JOHN BAPTIST. 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! W. DRUMMOND. SECOND BOOK. SUMMARY.