XI. The Ejection.
1
Now I have wean'd my wits aside
From Melancholy's dismall breast;
And from thy conceited care my genius bids forbear,
And will no more the duggs abide,
That kept her soul unblest
Of nourishment and rest.
2
I've sent sad thoughts to be exil'd
I'th' broker of Oblivions book:
I vow I will give o're, & range about no more,
To seek for glory, pomp or gold.
All time thus spent we spill,
Insatiate souls to fill.
3
World, I have tri'd thee, and I see
The frailty of thy temper such,
As secretly deludes each fancy that intrudes
On that supposed good of thee.
Far off you promise much,
Yet crumble by each touch.
4
Why then (dull fate) should I desire
To wait upon thy wavering heels?
I know thy wanton tricks, alas thou canst no fix
More then the mettal in the fire:
Who, ere thy goodness feels,
It slips away like Eeles.
5
My aspiration at the Throne,
My dartings at Nobility,
My labour for the word of Worship, or my Lord,
Shall fall into Oblivion.
Goodness is alter'd in mine eye,
Worms take it, what care I.
6
Place me but on the jovial joint
Of Bacchus his fraternal crew,
There we will govern point by point:
Wee'l drink deep healths to you,
And make no more ado.
