Are spent in watering vanities of life;
In making folly flourish still more fair, 570
When the sick soul, her wonted stay withdrawn,
Reclines on earth, and sorrows in the dust;
Instead of learning, there, her true support,
Though there thrown down her true support to learn.
Without Heaven’s aid, impatient to be bless’d,
She crawls to the next shrub, or bramble vile,
Though from the stately cedar’s arms she fell;
With stale, forsworn embraces, clings anew,