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In one twelve hours, and grow so miserable,
That they became the scornful, hateful fable
Of all the kingdom; and there's none so base,
But thought himself a man in better case.

This makes me pleased with mine own estate, And fearful to desire another's fate;

This makes me careless of the world's proud scorn,
And of those glories whereto such are born;
And if to have me still kept mean and poor,
To God's great glory shall aught add the more,
Or if to have disgraces heap'd on me,
For others in their way to bliss, may be
Of more advantage than to see me thrive
In outward fortunes, or more prized live,
I care not, though I never see the day,

Which with one pin's worth more enrich me may.
Yea, by the eternal Deity I vow,

Who knows I lie not, who doth hear me now,
Whose dreadful majesty is all I fear,

Of whose great Spirit these the sparklings are,
And who will make me such proud daring rue,
If this my protestation be untrue:

So I may still retain that inward peace,

That love and taste of the eternal bliss,

Those matchless comforts and those brave desires,

Those sweet contentments and immortal fires,

Which at this instant do inflame my breast,
And are too excellent to be exprest.

I do not care a rush, though I were born
Unto the greatest poverty and scorn

That, since God first infus'd it with his breath,
Poor flesh and blood did ever groan beneath,
Excepting only such a load it were

As no humanity was made to bear.

Yea, let me keep these thoughts, and let be hurl'd
Upon my back the spite of all the world;

Let me have neither drink nor bread to eat,
Nor clothes to wear, but those for which I sweat;
Let me become unto my foes a slave,

Or, causeless here, the marks of justice have
For some great villainy that I ne'er thought;
Let my best actions be against me brought;
That small repute and that poor little fame,
Which I have got, let men unto my shame
Hereafter turn; let me become the fable,
A talk of fools; let me be miserable

In all men's eyes, and let no man spare,
Though that would make me happy, half a tear;
Nay, which is more sufferable far

Than all the miseries yet spoken are,

Let that dear friend, whose love is more to me

Than all those drops of crimson liquor be

That warm my heart, and for whose only good
I could the brunt of all this care have stood-
Let him forsake me; let that prized friend
Be cruel too, and when distrest I send
To seek his comfort, let him look on me
With bitter scorn, and so hard-hearted be,
As that although he knew me innocent,
And how those miseries I underwent
In love to him, he yet deny me should
One gentle look, though that suffice me could,
And, truly griev'd to make me, bring in place
My well-known foe to scorn me to my
face.
Let this befall me; and with this, beside,
Let me be for the faulty friend belied;
Let my religion and my honesty

Be counted till my death hypocrisy ;

And when I die, let, till the general doom,
My name each hour into question come
For sins I never did; and if to this,

You ought can add which yet more grievous is,.
Let that befall me, so that in me

Those comforts may increase that springing be,
To help me bear it. Let that grace descend,.
Of which I now some portion apprehend,
And then as I already heretofore,

Upon my Maker's strength relying, swore,

So now I swear again, if ought it could
God's glory further that I suffer should
Those miseries recited, I nor care,

How soon they craz'd me, nor how long they were;
For He can make them pleasures, and I know,
As long as he inflicts them, will do so.

Nor unto this assurance am I come
By any apothegmas gathered from
Our old and much admir'd philosophers :
My sayings are mine own as well as theirs ;
For whatsoe'er account of them is made,
I have as good experience of them had.
Yea, when I die, though now they slighted be,
The times to come for them shall honour me,
And praise that mind of mine, which now perchance
Shall be reputed foolish arrogance.

Oh! that my lines were able to express

The cause and ground of this my carelesness,
That I might shew you what brave things they be,
Which at this instant are a-fire in me.

Fools may deride me, and suppose that this
No more but some vain-glorious humour is,
Or such-like idle notion as may rise

From furious and distemper'd phantasies;

But let their thoughts be free, I know the flame

That is within me, and from whence it came :

Such things have fill'd me, that I feel my brain
Wax giddy those high raptures to contain ;
They raise my spirits, which now whirling be:
As if they meant to take their leave of me.
And could those strains of contemplation stay
To lift me higher still but half a day,

By that time they would mount to such a height,
That all my cares would have an end to night.
But oh! I feel the fumes of flesh and blood
To clog these spirits in me, and like mud
They sink again : more dimly burn my fires
To her low pitch; my Muse again retires,
And as her heavenly flame extinguish'd be,
The more I find my cares to burthen me.
Yet, I believe, I was enlightened so,
That never shall my spirits stoop so low
To let my servile thoughts, and dunghill cares
Of common minds, entrap me in their snares.

For still I value not those things of nought, For which the greatest part take greatest thought. Much for the world I care not, and confess, Desire I do my care for it were less.

I do not care, for ought they me could harm,
If with more mischiefs this last age did swarm;
Yea, such poor joy I have, or care to see
The best contents these times can promise me;

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