When he doth faintly worke, and when prevaile, Onely great circles, than can be our scale: So, though thy circle to thy selfe expresse All, tending to thy endlesse happinesse, 120 And wee, by our good use of it may trye, Both how to live well young, and how to die, Yet, since we must be old, and age endures His Torrid Zone at Court, and calentures Of hot ambitions, irrelegions ice, 125 Zeales agues, and hydroptique avarice, Infirmities which need the scale of truth, As well as lust, and ignorance of youth; Why did'st thou not for these give medicines too, And by thy doing tell us what to doe? 130 Though as small pocket-clocks, whose every wheele Doth each mismotion and distemper feele, Whose _hand_ gets shaking palsies, and whose _string_ (His sinewes) slackens, and whose _Soule_, the spring, Expires, or languishes, whose pulse, the _flye_, 135 Either beates not, or beates unevenly, Whose voice, the _Bell_, doth rattle, or grow dumbe, Or idle,'as men, which to their last houres come, If these clockes be not wound, or be wound still, Or be not set, or set at every will; 140 So, youth is easiest to destruction, If then wee follow all, or follow none. Yet, as in great clocks, which in steeples chime, Plac'd to informe whole towns, to'imploy their time, An error doth more harme, being generall, 145 When, small clocks faults, only'on the wearer fall; So worke the faults of age, on which the eye Of children, servants, or the State relie. Why wouldst not thou then, which hadst such a soule, A clock so true, as might the Sunne controule, 150 And daily hadst from him, who gave it thee, Instructions, such as it could never be Disordered, stay here, as a generall And great Sun-dyall, to have set us All? O why wouldst thou be any instrument 155 To this unnaturall course, or why consent To this, not miracle, but Prodigie, That when the ebbs, longer then flowings be, Vertue, whose flood did with thy youth begin, Should so much faster ebb out, then flow in? 160 Though her flood was blowne in, by thy first breath, All is at once sunke in the whirle-poole death. Which word I would not name, but that I see Death, else a desert, growne a Court by thee. Now I grow sure, that if a man would have 165 Good companie, his entry is a grave. Mee thinkes all Cities, now, but Anthills bee, Where, when the severall labourers I see, For children, house, Provision, taking paine, They'are all but Ants, carrying eggs, straw, and grain; 170 And Church-yards are our cities, unto which The most repaire, that are in goodnesse rich. There is the best concourse, and confluence, There are the holy suburbs, and from thence