(13)
Count the night watches to his featherie Dames,
T' would be ſome ſolace yet, ſome little chearing
In this cloſe dungeon of innumerous bowes.
But ô that hapleſſe virgin our loſt ſiſter
Where may ſhe wander now, whether betake her
From the chill dew, amongſt rude burs and thiſtles?
Perhaps ſome cold banke is her boulſter now
Or 'gainſt the rugged barke of ſome broad Elme
Leans her unpillow'd head fraught with ſad fears.
What if in wild amazement, and affright
Or while we ſpeake within the direfull graſpe
Of Savage hunger, or of Savage heat?
Eld. bro. Peace brother, be not over exquiſite
To caſt the faſhion of uncertaine evils,
For grant they be ſo, while they reſt unknowne
What need a man foreſtall his date of griefe
And run to meet what he would moſt avoid?
Or if they be but falſe alarms of Feare
How bitter is ſuch ſelfe-deluſion?
I doe not thinke my ſiſter ſo to ſeeke
Or ſo unprincipl'd in vertues book
And the ſweet peace that goodneſſe boſoms ever
As that the ſingle want of light, and noiſe
(Not being in danger, as I truſt ſhe is not)
Could ſtir the conſtant mood of her calme thoughts
And put them into miſ-becomming plight.
Vertue could ſee to doe what vertue would
By her owne radiant light, though Sun and Moon
Were in the flat Sea ſunck, and Wiſdoms ſelfe
Oft ſeeks to ſweet retired Solitude
Where with her beſt nurſe Contemplation
She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings
