VII.
When my new mind had no infusion known,
Thou gav’st so deep a tincture of thine own,
That ever since I vainly try
To wash away the inherent dye:
Long work perhaps may spoil thy colours quite,
But never will reduce the native white;
To all the ports of honour and of gain,
I often steer my course in vain,
Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again.
Thou slack’nest all my nerves of industry,
By making them so oft to be
The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsie.
Whoever this world’s happiness would see,
Must as entirely cast off thee,
As they who only heaven desire,
Do from the world retire.
This was my error, this my gross mistake,
Myself a demy-votary to make.
Thus with Sapphira, and her husband’s fate,
(A fault which I like them am taught too late)
For all that I gave up, I nothing gain,
And perish for the part which I retain.