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The hand of Heaven strikes sure, and he that flies
To save his life, oft in his flying dies;
But if we needs must fly, let our flight be
Lord from our too too sinful selves to thee;
If not, we only flutter in the night
Not knowing how, nor where, we take our flight;
We fly to th' terra incognita, and there
Our flights rewarded with perpetual care;
But if we to the Land of promise fly
We enjoy the blessing of a serene Skey:
There's, there's the place, where neither cold nor heat.
Are in extreams, all things are good, and great;
No diminutions, but compleated Fate
Is still supported in a constant State.