From pressing-on, (when he incourag'd it,)
My Pegasvs, had learn'd, e're now, to rise,
Which, yet, with lame, and sickly Feathers flies.
But, HEE hath left us; and, I thought not on
The losse I had of HIM, till he was gone;
Nor could I dreame, till he did hence ascend,
What t'was to want an Honourable-friend:
Nor, what they feele, whom Fate constraines, to tarry
On stormy Plaines, without a SANCTVARIE.
Assoone, as from among us, he made wing,