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.
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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