101. The Check.
1
But stay, lie down my soul,
Lie down, (dear soul) and leave
The world, corrupt and foul
With vanity, and cleave
Unto thy self, and like a Hermit, spend
Thy days in silence, till thy days shall end.
2
He sleeps in silver peace
That in a Cell remains,
Where altercations cease
Both from his breast and brains.
No revolution of the reeling State
Can mend or mischief his monastick fate.
3
No blustring blast that blows
From rigid mouths of Kings;
No poysoned surge that flows
From worth-consuming springs
Can drown his fortunes by their furious flashes,
Or beat his walls down by their dismal dashes.
The Counter Check.
But stay (my soul) th' art born
A burning Taper bright,
Whose luster should adorn
Thy neighbour and the night.
Then spread thy beams, and he that shall despise
T'embrace thy light, may it burn out his eyes.