At last, dear _Lysidas_, I’l set thee Free, From the disorders of Uncertainty; Doubt’s the worst Torment of a generous Mind, Who ever searching what it cannot find, Is roving still from wearied thought to thought, And to no settled Calmness can be brought: The Cowards Ill, who dares not meet his Fate, } And ever doubting to be Fortunate, } Falls to that Wretchedness his fears Create. } I should have dy’d silent, as Flowers decay, Had not thy Friendship stopt me on my way, That friendship which our Infant hearts inspir’d, E’re them Ambition or false Love had fir’d: Friendship! which still enlarg’d with years and sense Till it arriv’d to perfect Excellence; Friendship! Mans noblest bus’ness! without whom } The out-cast Life finds nothing it can own, } But Dully dyes unknowing and unknown. } Our searching thought serves only to impart It’s new gain’d knowledge to anothers Heart; The truly wise, and great, by friendship grow, That, best instructs ‘em how they should be so, That, only sees the Error of the Mind, Which by its soft reproach becomes Refin’d; Friendship! which even Loves mighty power controuls, When that but touches; this Exchanges Souls. The remedy of Grief, the safe retreat Of the scorn’d Lover, and declining great. This sacred tye between thy self and me, Not to be alter’d by my Destiny; This tye, which equal to my new desires Preserv’d it self amidst Loves softer Fires, Obliges me (without reserve) t’ impart To _Lycidas_ the story of my Heart; Tho’ ‘twill increase its present languishment, To call to its remembrance past content: So drowning Men near to their native shore (From whence they parted ne’er to visit more) Look back and sigh, and from that last Adieu, Suffer more pain then in their Death they do: That grief, which I in silent Calms have born, It will renew, and rowse into a Storm. The Truce.