New Presbyter Is But Old Priest Writ

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

Enjoy Your Dear Wit And Gay Rhetoric, That Hath So Well Been Taught Her Dazzling Fence.

Haste Thee, Nymph, And Bring With Thee Jest, And Youthful Jollity, Quips, And Cranks, And Wanton Wiles, Nods, And Becks, And Wreathed Smiles, Such As Hang On Hebe's Cheek, And Love To Live In Dimple Sleek; Sport That Wrinkled Care Derides, And Laughter Holding Both His Sides.

To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New.

Innumerable As The Stars Of Night, Or Stars Of Morning, Dewdrops Which The Sun Impearls On Every Leaf And Every Flower.