143
“Alas! (Quoth th'Servant) whilst my Lord aimes at
“The honour of being but a Royall Post,
“His selfe is lost. So patient Chymists get
“But Smoke, Dust, Hope, for all their reall cost.
“So th'Dog that on the waters face did catch
“At th'shaddow of his Morsell, lost the flesh.
144
“Poor Mercvry, whose being so's thy Death!
“Losing true Treasure for an empty name,
“Thy selfe for Honour, Yet but breath for breath,
“The breath of Life for the fond breath of Fame!
“Ah! how much more than pitty tis to fell
“A blooming Spray that sprouts so straight and well!
145
“Brood with me Hermes, help this Plot to hatch,
“That this Anti-Ixion whose strift is
“To grasp but a Cloud, airy Fame, may catch
“A reall Jvno, or a fairier piece,
“What though he nor rewards nor knows my pain?
“In vertuous Acts the very doing's gain.
146
“Or tis a crime or none t'have op'd this Letter.
“If none, I've pleas'd my selfe, not wrong'd the King.
“If tis a Sin, to purge it no way's better
“Than good out of intended evill to bring.
This said, he took a blank, and altering the
Mind of the Monarchs Letter thus wrot he.
