 | Men-Miracles |  |
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To the same.
Madam,
Could there be found a man that brings
Feathers to hire, and hackney wings,
Could we procure a power that might
Transforme a Journey to a flight.
Then swift as Eagles would we fly,
Or Arrowes through the empty sky.
And our ambition would be than,
To place those feathers in your fan.
Feathers to hire, and hackney wings,
Could we procure a power that might
Transforme a Journey to a flight.
Then swift as Eagles would we fly,
Or Arrowes through the empty sky.
And our ambition would be than,
To place those feathers in your fan.
But since no Feathers we acquire,
Nor Wings but those of our desire,
We must still languish here, still stay
To love the Journey, hate the Way.
Like Seamen who at distance court,
With eager smiles the neighbour Port;
But if a Rocke or Shelfe awaite,
They loose the Land to shun the Fate.
Thus some a Martyrs wreath desire,
But leave the Crowne to scape the fire.
This is our case, we see our blisse,
But dare not print the Precipice.
For horse and man sticke fast and stay
Like feirce Saint Georges of the way,
Rooted like Statues there they stand,
Like Trophies of some Carver's hand.
Hang forth a Bush, and one may sweare
They are but the signe o'th' Traveller.
He spurres still, but his horse moves downe
No more then that stampt ith' Halfe-Crowne.
Nor Wings but those of our desire,
We must still languish here, still stay
To love the Journey, hate the Way.
Like Seamen who at distance court,
With eager smiles the neighbour Port;
But if a Rocke or Shelfe awaite,
They loose the Land to shun the Fate.
Thus some a Martyrs wreath desire,
But leave the Crowne to scape the fire.
This is our case, we see our blisse,
But dare not print the Precipice.
For horse and man sticke fast and stay
Like feirce Saint Georges of the way,
90
Like Trophies of some Carver's hand.
Hang forth a Bush, and one may sweare
They are but the signe o'th' Traveller.
He spurres still, but his horse moves downe
No more then that stampt ith' Halfe-Crowne.
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