As In An Organ From One Blast

Death From Sin No Power Can Separate.

For To Interpose A Little Ease, Let Our Frail Thoughts Dally With False Surmise.

From That High Mount Of God Whence Light And Shade Spring Both, The Face Of Brightest Heaven Had Changed To Grateful Twilight.

Imparadis'd In One Another's Arms.

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap, Or Be With Ease Gathered, Not Harshly Plucked, For Death Mature: This Is Old Age; But Then Thou Must Outlive Thy Youth, Thy Strength, Thy Beauty, Which Will Change To Withered Weak And Grey.