150
GONDIBERT,
76.
With mourning Gondibert he walks apart,
To watch his Passions force, who seems to bear
By silent grief, Two Tyrants ore his Heart,
Great Love, and his inferiour Tyrant, Fear.
With mourning Gondibert he walks apart,
To watch his Passions force, who seems to bear
By silent grief, Two Tyrants ore his Heart,
Great Love, and his inferiour Tyrant, Fear.
77.
But Astragon such kind inquiries made,
Of all which to his Art's wise cares belong,
As his sick silence he does now disswade,
And midst Love's fears, give courage to his Tongue.
But Astragon such kind inquiries made,
Of all which to his Art's wise cares belong,
As his sick silence he does now disswade,
And midst Love's fears, give courage to his Tongue.
78.
Then thus he spake with Love's humilitie;
Have pitie Father! and since first so kind,
You would not let this worthless Bodie die,
Vouchasafe more nobly to preserve my Mind!
Then thus he spake with Love's humilitie;
Have pitie Father! and since first so kind,
You would not let this worthless Bodie die,
Vouchasafe more nobly to preserve my Mind!
79.
A Mind so lately luckie, as it here
Has Virtue's Mirrour found, which does reflect
Such blemishes as Custom made it wear,
But more authentick Nature does detect.
A Mind so lately luckie, as it here
Has Virtue's Mirrour found, which does reflect
Such blemishes as Custom made it wear,
But more authentick Nature does detect.
80.
A Mind long sick of Monarchs vain disease;
Not to be fill'd, because with glorie fed;
So busie it condemn'd even War of Ease,
And for their useless rest despis'd the Dead.
A Mind long sick of Monarchs vain disease;
Not to be fill'd, because with glorie fed;
So busie it condemn'd even War of Ease,
And for their useless rest despis'd the Dead.
81.
But since it here has Virtue quiet sound,
It thinks (though Storms were wish'd by it before)
All sick at least at Sea, that scape undrown'd,
Whom Glory serves as wind to leave the shore.
But since it here has Virtue quiet sound,
It thinks (though Storms were wish'd by it before)
All sick at least at Sea, that scape undrown'd,
Whom Glory serves as wind to leave the shore.
82.
All Virtue is to yours but fashion now,
Religion, Art; Internals are all gone,
Or outward turn'd, to satisfie with show,
Not God, but his inferiour Eye, the Sun.
All Virtue is to yours but fashion now,
Religion, Art; Internals are all gone,
Or outward turn'd, to satisfie with show,
Not God, but his inferiour Eye, the Sun.
And
