In some dry desart Lands (they say)
Are mighty Rocks, which shadow make,
Where passengers that go that way,
May rest, and so refreshing take,
Their sweltish Wearinesse to slake.
So in this world such violent
Occasions, find we still to mourn.
That scorching heat of Discontent
VVould all into combustion turn
And soon our soules with anguish burn,