Praise From An Enemy Smells Of Craft.

Th' Imperial Ensign, Which Full High Advanc'd Shone Like A Meteor, Streaming To The Wind.

Consider First, That Great Or Bright Infers Not Excellence.

Immediate Are The Acts Of God, More Swift Than Time Or Motion.

And May At Last My Weary Age Find Out The Peaceful Hermitage, The Hairy Gown And Mossy Cell, Where I May Sit And Rightly Spell Of Every Star That Heaven Doth Shew, And Every Herb That Sips The Dew, Till Old Experience To Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

On The Tawny Sands And Shelves Trip The Pert Fairies And The Dapper Elves.