Now, the East blazes, now, sad Phœbus slides

Down the red hills, that shroud him for his grave;

The waters now are calm, now, troubled, foam,

Exult on ridges, now o’er slopes decline,

Now, in their summer sprightliness, they roam,

Now, stand, congealed, in winter’s icy twine;

Full many a flower is often mirror’d there,

And the fresh grass, and the green shady trees,

Full many a pebble glistens through them, fair,

All in confusion, toss’d by wave and breeze;

’Tis strange, though many stones are form’d to fit,

Few meet their mates, most roll confus’dly knit.

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{52}

LII.

The world’s but a rude frame, whose substance takes

Colouring from all who flatter, or who curse;

How oft man’s heart, all discontented wakes,

His frame’s a coffin, and the world’s his hearse;

How oft, despairing, he goes forth to find

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