A Man I Am Cross'd

I Prithee Gentle Friend, Let Thy Fair Wisdom, Not Thy Passions, Sway In This Uncivil And Unjust Extent Against Thy Peace.

Time's Glory Is To Command Contending Kings, To Unmask Falsehood, And Bring Truth To Light.

Now The Melancholy God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Garments Of Changeable Taffeta, For Thy Mind Is Opal.

If There Were Reason For These Miseries, Then Into Limits Could I Bind My Woes. If The Winds Rages, Doth Not The Sea Wax Mad, Threat'ning The Welkin With Its Big-swoll'n Face? And Wilt Though Have A Reason For This Coil? I Am The Sea. Hark How Her Sighs Doth Blow. She Is The Weeping Welkin, I The Earth.

Tis Mad Idolatry To Make The Service Greater Than The God.