With Cowslips Wan That Hang The Pensive

O Fairest Flower! No Sooner Blown But Blasted, Soft Silken Primrose Fading Timelessly.

In Discourse More Sweet; For Eloquence The Soul, Song Charms The Sense. Others Apart Sat On A Hill Retir'd, In Thoughts More Elevate, And Reason'd High Of Providence, Foreknowledge, Will, And Fate, Fix'd Fate, Free-will, Foreknowledge Absolute; And Found No End, In Wand'ring Mazes Lost.

For The Air Of Youth, Hopeful And Cheerful, In Thy Blood Will Reign A Melancholy Damp Of Cold And Dry To Weigh Thy Spirits Down, And Last Consume The Balm Of Life.

Bacchus, That First From Out The Purple Grape Crush'd The Sweet Poison Of Misused Wine.

The Pious And Just Honoring Of Ourselves May Be Thought The Fountainhead From Whence Every Laudable And Worthy Enterprise Issues Forth.