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How strangely active are the arts of Peace,
Whose restless motions less than Wars do cease!
Peace is not freed from labour but from noise;
And War more force but not more pains employs;
Such is the mighty Swiftness of your mind,
That (like the Earths,) it leaves our sense behind,
While you so smoothly turn and roul our Sphear,
That rapid motion does but rest appear.
For as in Natures swiftness, with the throng
Of flying Orbs while ours is born along,
All seems at rest to the deluded eye:
(Mov'd by the Soul of the same harmony,)
So carry'd on by your unwearied care
We rest in Peace and yet in motion share.
Let Envy then those Crimes within you see,
From which the happy never must be free;
(Envy that does with misery reside,
The joy and the revenge of ruin'd Pride;)
Think it not hard, if at so cheap a rate
You can secure the constancy of Fate,
Whose kindness sent, what does their malice seem,
By lesser ills the greater to redeem.
Whose restless motions less than Wars do cease!
Peace is not freed from labour but from noise;
And War more force but not more pains employs;
Such is the mighty Swiftness of your mind,
That (like the Earths,) it leaves our sense behind,
While you so smoothly turn and roul our Sphear,
That rapid motion does but rest appear.
For as in Natures swiftness, with the throng
Of flying Orbs while ours is born along,
All seems at rest to the deluded eye:
(Mov'd by the Soul of the same harmony,)
So carry'd on by your unwearied care
We rest in Peace and yet in motion share.
Let Envy then those Crimes within you see,
From which the happy never must be free;
(Envy that does with misery reside,
The joy and the revenge of ruin'd Pride;)
Think it not hard, if at so cheap a rate
You can secure the constancy of Fate,
Whose kindness sent, what does their malice seem,
By lesser ills the greater to redeem.
Nor
