Ah, were this all, our lives might yet go well
For, since we suffer here the pains of Hell,
Heav'n should be certain, Death—God's just
reprieve.
But thou with vain forebodings dost conceive
To break our hearts, and turn us infidel.
Oh for that silence, virgin of all sound,
Vast, uncalamitous which did abound
When Darkness, drooping from Eternity,
Trailed his slow pinions o'er Time's tideless