 | Otia Sacra Optima Fides |  |
Upon the Times.
Awake thou best of sence,
Intelligence,
And let no Fancy-vapour steer
Thy Contemplation t'think that peace is neer,
Whilst war in words we doe bemone,
There's nothing less left in Intention.
Intelligence,
And let no Fancy-vapour steer
Thy Contemplation t'think that peace is neer,
Whilst war in words we doe bemone,
There's nothing less left in Intention.
England that was, not Is,
Unless in Metamorphosis,
Chang'd from the Bower of bliss and rest,
To become now Bellonaes Interest,
In danger of a Funerall Pile,
Unless some happy Swift means reconcile.
Unless in Metamorphosis,
Chang'd from the Bower of bliss and rest,
To become now Bellonaes Interest,
In danger of a Funerall Pile,
Unless some happy Swift means reconcile.
Which how to bring to pass,
Beyond Mans hopes, alass,
Therefore be pleas'd (Thou) who didst make
Atonement for His sake,
To silence this unnaturall spell,
As Thou didst once the Delphian Oracle.
Beyond Mans hopes, alass,
Therefore be pleas'd (Thou) who didst make
Atonement for His sake,
To silence this unnaturall spell,
As Thou didst once the Delphian Oracle.
| Otia Sacra Optima Fides | |