He made the Angels thine, thy fellows all, Nay, even thy servants, when devotions call. Oh canst thou be so stupid then, so dim, To seek a saving influence, and lose him? Can Stars protect thee? or can poverty, Which is the light to Heaven, put out his eye? He is my star; in him all truth I find, All influence, all fate, and when my mind Is furnished with his fullnesse, my poor story Shall outlive all their Age, and all their glory. The hand of danger cannot fall amiss, When I know what, and in whose power it is. Nor want, the cause of man, shall make me groan; A holy hermit is a mind alone. |