Now Conscience Wakes Despair That

Man Hath His Daily Work Of Body Or Mind Appointed.

Th' Ethereal Mould Incapable Of Stain Would Soon Expel Her Mischief, And Purge Off The Baser Fire, Victorious. Thus Repuls'd, Our Final Hope Is Flat Despair.

Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye, While The Bee With Honied Thigh, That At Her Flowery Work Doth Sing, And The Waters Murmuring With Such Consort As They Keep, Entice The Dewy-feathered Sleep.

Where All Life Dies Death Lives.

O Fleeting Joys Of Paradise, Dear Bought With Lasting Woes!