 | Divine poems
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Eleg 18.
So hath the Fowler, with his slye deceits,
Beguil'd the harmelesse bird; so with false baits,
The treach'rous Angler, strikes his nibbling prey;
Even so my Foes, my guiltlesse soule betray;
So have my fierce pursuers, with close wiles
Inthralled me, and gloried in my spoiles;
Where undermining plots could not prevaile,
There mischiefe did with strength of arme assaile;
Thus in afflictions troubled billowes tost,
I live; but tis a life worse had, than lost:
Thus, thus o'rewhelm'd, my secret soule doth cry,
I am destroy'd, and there's no helper nigh.
| Divine poems
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