 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 12.
My tongu's in labour with her painefull birth,
That finds no passage; Lord, how strange a dearth
Of words, concomitates a world of woes!
I neither can conceale, nor yet disclose:
You weary Pilgrimes, you whom change of Climes
Have tought you change of Fortunes, and of Times,
Stay, stay your feeble steps, and cast your eyes
On me, the Abstract of all miseries.
Say (Pilgrimes) say, if e're your eyes beheld
More truer Iliades; more unparalleld,
And matelesse evils, which my offended God
Reulcerates, with his enraged Rod.
| Divine poems
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