To My Lord Bishop of S. on New-Years Day

T H ough with the course and motion of the year,
Not only Starres and Sun
Move where they first begun;
But Things and Actions do
Keep the same Circle too,
Return'd to the same point in the same Sphear .

Griefs and their Causes still are where they stood,
'Tis the same Cloud and Night
Shuts up our Joyes and Light:
Warres as remote from Peace ,
And Bondage from Release ,
As when the Sun his last years Circuite rode.

Though Sword and Slaughter are not parted hence,
But we like years and times ,
Meet in unequal chimes,
Now a Cloud and then a Sun ,
Undoe and are undone ,
Let loose and stopt by th' Orbes intelligence.

Though Combates have so thick and frequent stood,
That we at length may raise
A Calendar of dayes,
And style them foul or fair,
By their success , not Aire:
And sign our Festivals by Rebels blood .

Though the sad years are cloath'd in such a dress,
That times to times give place,
And seasons shift their grace ,
Not by our Cold or Heat ,
But Conquest or Defeat:
And Losse makes Winter, Summer, happiness .

Nay though a greater Ruine yet await;
Such as the Active curse,
Sent to make worst times worse ,
Deaths keen and secret dart,
The shame of Hearths and Art
Which proves at once our Wonder and our Fate .

Though these conspire to sully our request,
And labour to destroy,
And kill your New-years joy,
Yet still your wonted Art
Will keep our wish in heart .
Proportion'd not toth' times but to your breast
Thus in the Storme you Calme and Silence find,
Nor Sword nor Sickness can approach your mind.
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